Mr.  &  Mrs. 
Frederick  Lockwood  LiDman 


Robert 


esented  by 
L.  lipman 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

EDITED    BY 

WILL  D.  HOWE 

PROFESSOR   OF  ENGLISH   AT   INDIANA   UNIVERSITY 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LETTERS 


THE    MODERN    STUDENT'S    LIBRARY 

PUBLISHED   BY   CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


THE    ORDEAL    OF    RICHARD   FEVEREL 

By  George  Meredith. 
THE  HISTORY  OF   PENDENNIS. 

By   William  Makepeace   Thackeray. 
THE  RETURN   OF  THE   NATIVE. 

By -Thomas  Hardy. 
BOSWELL'S   LIFE  OF  JOHNSON. 
ADAM   BEDE. 

By   George   Eliot. 
ENGLISH    POETS    OF    THE    EIGHTEENTH 

CENTURY. 
THE   RING  AND  THE   BOOK. 

By   Robert   Browning. 
PAST  AND   PRESENT. 

By  Thomas  Carlyle. 
PRIDE   AND    PREJUDICE. 

By  Jane  Austen. 
THE  HEART  OF  MID-LOTHIAN. 

By  Sir   Walter  Scott. 
THE   SCARLET   LETTER. 

By  Nathaniel   Hawthorne. 
BUNYAN'S    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 
THE  ESSAYS  OF  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVEN- 

SON. 

NINETEENTH    CENTURY    LETTERS. 
THE    ESSAYS    OF   ADDISON   AND   STEELE. 
Each  small  12mo.     75  cents  net. 

Other  volumes  in  preparation. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

NINETEENTH  CENTURY 
LETTERS 


SELECTED    AND    EDITED,    WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION 
BY 

BYRON  JOHNSON  ^REES 

PROFESSOH     OF     ENGLISH     AT     WILLIAMS     COLLEGE 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  BOSTON 


Copyright  1899,  1907,  1911,  1912,  1919  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Copyright  1885,  1909  by  George  Edward  Woodberry 
Copyright  1908  by  John  Lane  Company 
Copyright  1895, 1897  by  the  Macmillan  Company 
Copyright  1886, 1890  by  John  G.  Nicolay  and  John  Hay 
Copyright  1914  by  Helen  G.  Nicolay 
Copyright  1899,  1908  by  the  Century  Company 
Copyright  1894  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  Company 
Copyright  1887  by  James  Elliot  Cabot 
Copyright  1894,  1907  by  Samuel  T.  Pickard 
Copyright  1896  by  John  T.  Morse,  Jr. 
Copyright  1895  by  Stone  and  Kimball 
Copyright  1875,  1903  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Copyright  1876  by  G.  Otto  Trevelyan 
Copyright  1889  by  G.  Lewis  Stackpole 
Copyright  1917  by  Elizabeth  C.  Harcourt 


GIFT 


TO 
GRAHAM   RYLE 


M877421 


PREFACE 

The  present  volume  is  the  result  of  an  attempt  to  bring 
together  within  small  compass,  from  the  correspondence 
of  well-known  English  and  American  authors  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,  letters  that  possess  two,  and  in  most  in- 
stances, three  characteristics.  Though  there  are  exceptions, 
the  letters  here  submitted  are  usually  typical  of  the  writers; 
they  furnish  information  as  to  literary  conditions  and  rela- 
tionships; and  they  possess  interest  in  themselves  as  examples 
of  epistolary  correspondence.  Obviously  allowance  must 
be  made  for  vagaries  of  judgment  and  taste.  A  letter  that 
interests  the  editor  because  of  some  personal  predilection 
may  seem  dull  to  many  readers;  and  doubtless  he  has  often 
failed  through  individual  limitations,  either  of  responsiveness 
or  of  knowledge,  to  include  letters  that  should  have  been 
printed.  Often  he  has  somewhat  wistfully  rejected  a  good 
letter  because  it  was  already  thoroughly  familiar  to  readers. 
Now  and  then  the  law  of  copyright  has  hampered  his  free- 
dom of  choice. 

Of  the  various  kinds  of  writing,  the  letter  most  of  all  in- 
cites to  annotation.  The  temptation  to  write  foot-notes, 
those  "voices  that  bark  from  the  basement,"  is  particularly 
strong  when  a  reference  to  a  somewhat  obscure  event,  or 
an  allusion  to  a  matter  familiar  to  but  a  small  group  of  per- 
sons, makes  its  appearance.  When  tempted  the  editor  has 
usually  remembered  that  readers  and  students  of  literary 
letters  are  in  most  cases  quite  capable  of  making  their  own 
comments  on  the  text,  or  that,  if  they  are  not,  there  is  on 
this  occasion  no  good  excuse  for  annoying  them. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION .     .     xiii 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  .   xxiii 


WRITERS  OF  LETTERS 

THE   DATES   ARE   THOSE   OF  THE   BIRTH   AND   DEATH   OF   EACH 
WRITER 

PAGE 

1757-1827.    WILLIAM  BLAKE       .     ...     .     ,:  ;.  1 

1763-1855.    SAMUEL  ROGERS       .     .     .     .     .     .     .  3 

1767-1849.     MARIA  EDGEWORTH       .     .     .;:;     *'.  4 

1769-1846.    JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE      .     .     .     .     .  10 

1770-1850.    WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH      .     .     .     .  -.  11 

1771-1845.    SYDNEY  SMITH    ;     .     .     .     ..    .'   .<    V  23 

1771-1832.    SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  .     ....     .     .  35 

1772-1834.    SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE    ....  40 

1773-1850.    FRANCIS  JEFFREY     .     .-    ."     .     .     .     .  60 

1774-1843.     ROBERT  SOUTHEY     .     ;     .     .     .     .     .  67 

1775-1864.    WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 73 

1775-1834.    CHARLES  LAMB    .     .     .     ;     .     •     •     *  78 

1764-1847.     MARY  LAMB  .     .'.>;.-.     ;   Y   .  124 

1779-1852.    THOMAS  MOORE  .     .     .     .-  y,  .     .%   i  128 

ix 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

1783-1859.  WASHINGTON  IRVING     ......  131 

1785-1859.  THOMAS  DEQUINCEY      .     .     .     ...  138 

1Y86-1846.  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON    .....  142 

1788-1824.  LORD  BYRON       .     .     :     .     ....  154 

1788-1845.  RICHARD  HARRIS  BARHAM       .     ,     .     .  165 

1792-1822.  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY     .     »,,.,,.,,,.    .,.  166 

1794-1878.  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT       ....  177 

1795-1842.  THOMAS  ARNOLD       .     .     ....     .  181 

1795-1821.  JOHN  KEATS  .     .     ,     ....     .     .  183 

1795-1881  THOMAS  CARLYLE     .     ,     .     -     ...  208 

1801-1866.  JANE  WELSH'  CARLYLE  .     ..    ....  232 

1799-1845.  THOMAS  HOOD   '•-..    .     .     ...     .     .  247 

1799-1859.  RUFUS  CHOATE   .     f     .     ;    > .,,,  .     .     .  250 

1800-1859.  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY   .     .     .  251 

1801-1890,  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN       .     .     ...  258 

1803-1882  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON    .     .     .     .     .  260 

1804-1864.  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 263 

1806-1867.  NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS    .     .     .     .  269 

1806-1844.  JOHN  STERLING   .     .     .     ^^••'^     -     .  270 

1807-1882.  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW     .      .  273 

1807-1892.  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER    ....  280 

1809-1849.  *  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  .     .  .  .     ;.:     .     .     .  283 

1809-1865.  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  .  289 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

1809-1883.  EDWARD  FITZGERALD 291 

1809-1892.  ALFRED  TENNYSON 333 

1809-1894.  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES      ....  336 

1811-1863.  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY     .     .  341 

1812-1870.  CHARLES  DICKENS 366 

1812-1889.  ROBERT  BROWNING  .     .     .     ...     .  390 

1806-1861.  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  .     .     .  394 

1812-1888.  EDWARD  LEAR    .     .     .    *     ....  406 

1814-1877.  JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY     .     .     .     .     .409 

1816-1855.  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE      .     .     .     .     .     .414 

1817-1862.  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 418 

1817-1881.  JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS 422 

1819-1900.  JOHN  RUSKIN .     .  423 

1819-1891.  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL    ...'..  426 

1819-1892.  WALT  WHITMAN       ...     .     .     .     .  457 

1819-1875.  CHARLES  KINGSLEY       ....     .     .  458 

1819-1880.  "GEORGE  ELIOT"     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  459 

1822-1888.  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  .  ".     ...     .     .  461 

1825-1895.  THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 469 

1828-1862.  FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN      ...     .     .     .  471 

1828-1882.  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI      ....  471 

1828-1909.  GEORGE  MEREDITH 474 

1832-1898.  "LEWIS  CARROLL"  .  490 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

1834-1896.  WILLIAM  MORRIS 491 

1835-1893.  PHILLIPS  BROOKS 493 

1840-1893.  JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS      ....  495 

1842-1881.  SIDNEY  LANIER  .     .    V    ,     ....  498 

1850-1894.  ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON      ;--.   -.     .  500 

APPENDIX  535 


INTRODUCTION 

Of  the  numerous  species  of  written  discourse  to  which 
the  human  instinct  for  communicating  thought  and  feeling 
has  given  rise,  that  most  frequently  and  generally  employed 
is  without  question  the  letter.  It  is  the  one  type  of  com- 
position that  approximately  every  one,  whatever  the  degree 
of  his  literary  attainment,  finds  it  desirable  and  necessary 
after  some  fashion  to  cultivate.  Novels,  short  stories,  es- 
says, poems,  plays,  biographies,  editorial  articles, — these 
are,  after  all,  the  contribution  of  a  relatively  small  number 
of  writers;  but  'the  literature  of  the  letter'  is  always  being 
unimaginably  augmented  through  the  activity  of  the  people 
as  a  whole.  Under  such  circumstances,  circumstances  that 
involve  wholesale  participation  and  infinite  variety  in  pur- 
pose and  adaptation,  it  is  perhaps  not  surprising  that  at- 
tempts clearly  to  define  the  principles  of  excellence  in  letter- 
writing  should  have  invariably  failed.  For  the  other  species 
of  literary  activity,  indeed,  there  are  more  or  less  familiar 
and  adequate  critical  standards.  Criticism,  disseminated 
in  some  phase  among  all  classes  of  readers  and  writers,  has 
made  it  possible  for  almost  any  person  to  differentiate  the 
novel,  let  us  say,  from  the  essay,  or  the  play  from  an  argu- 
ment; everybody,  unless  it  be  the  more  enthusiastic  writer 
of  'new  poetry/  recognizes  the  difference  between  prose  and 
verse;  but  criticism  has  not  yet  pointed .  out  satisfactorily 
the  characteristics  that  all  good  letters  possess,  and  has  pro- 
mulgated no  canons  that  commend  themselves  inevitably 
to  any  considerable  body  of  good  judges.  We  know  of  course 
that  some  letters  are  'good'  and  that  others  are  'bad,'  but 
what  it  is  that  effects  the  'goodness,'  other  than  those  quali- 
ties that  are  common  to  memorable  and  felicitous  writing 
in  general,  we  are  often  at  a  loss  to  say.  We  are  convinced 
that  the  letters  of  Cicero  and  of  the  younger  Pliny  are  ex- 

xiii 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

cellent,  and  those  of  Madame  de  Sevigne,  Horace  Walpole, 
Alexander  Pope,  and  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu;  but 
so  are  Sir  Richard  Steele's  and  Dean  Swift's  and  Marjorie 
Fleming's.  We  regard  Lord  Chesterfield  and  William 
Cowper  and  Edward  FitzGerald  as  notable  writers  of  letters, 
but  we  insist  that  Sydney  Smith  and  Jane  Welsh  and  Ben- 
jamin Robert  Hay  don  shall  have  honorable  place.  Doubt- 
less it  would  be  possible  to  find  traits  common  to  the  letters 
of  all  these  writers,  though  it  would  perhaps  be  difficult,  but 
the  peculiar  and  individual  excellence  of  the  letter-writer, 
that  which  gives  him  distinction,  would,  in  some  cases  at 
least,  lie  outside  the  critical  scheme  unless  the  scheme  were 
so  eclectic  as  to  serve  no  really  useful  purpose. 

Though  the  task  of  adequately  defining  and  describing 
the  letter  as  a  literary  form  may  well  be  left  to  more  fully 
developed  criticism,  it  is  permissible  in  the  meantime  to 
consider  suggestions  offered  by  experienced  practitioners  of 
'the  gentle  art.'  James  Russell  Lowell,  in  excusing  the  dul- 
ness  of  one  of  his  letters,  says  to  his  correspondent :  "  Worse 
than  all  is  that  lack  of  interest  in  one's  self  that  comes  from 
drudgery, — for  I  hold  that  a  letter  which  is  not  mainly  about 
the  writer  of  it  lacks  the  prime  flavor.  The  wine  must  smack 
a  little  of  the  cask."  Again  he  writes,  "A  letter  ought  al- 
ways to  be  the  genuine  and  natural  flower  of  one's  disposi- 
tion." "  Do  you  find,"  he  says,  in  speaking  of  Richard  Henry 
Dana,  Jr.,  "do  you  find  the  real  inside  of  him  in  his  letters? 
I  think  not,  and  this  is  a  pretty  sure  test."  "It  has  been 
a  hobby  of  mine,"  John  Henry  Newman  wrote  to  his  sister 
in  1863,  "though  perhaps  it  is  a  truism,  not  a  hobby,  that 
the  true  life  of  a  man  is  in  his  letters.  .  .  .  Not  only  for 
the  interest  of  a  biography,  but  for  arriving  at  the  inside 
of  things,  the  publication  of  letters  is  the  true  method. 
Biographies  varnish,  they  assign  motives,  they  conjecture 
feelings,  they  interpret  Lord  Burleigh's  nods;  but  contem- 
porary letters  are  facts." 

Such  expressions  as  "interest  in  one's  self,"  "the  natural 
flower  of  one's  disposition,"  "the  true  life  of  a  man,"  at  once 
remind  us  that  it  is,  indeed,  very  frequently  the  personality 
of  the  writer  as  revealed  in  his  letters  that  commends  them 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

to  us.  Lowell  himself  was  a  demonstration  of  the  correct- 
ness of  his  view.  He  was  a  poet  and  his  letters  contain  much 
that  is  poetic;  he  was  an  indefatigable  student  and  his  ad- 
venturous reading  has  left  its  mark  on  his  correspondence; 
he  was  a  college  professor  and  a  Minister  to  the  Court  of 
St.  James;  but  it  is  not  precisely  as  poet  or  scholar  or  public 
servant  that  he  makes  his  impression  upon  us  in  the  letters 
that  have  appeared  since  his  death.  What  really  appeals 
to  us  in  them  is  the  gradual  disclosure  of  a  thoroughly  like- 
able man,  a  refined  and  winning  yet  stalwart  New  England 
gentleman,  rich  in  the  personal  qualities  that  give  grace  and 
value  to  life. 

That  the  letters  of  Charles  Lamb  owe  their  fascination 
to  their  revelation  of  personality  is  obvious.  Like  the  Essays 
of  Elia,  they  cast  and  maintain  their  spell  through  the  per- 
vasive presence  of  a  fresh  and  surprising  individuality.  They 
are  rilled  with  wise  and  amusing  utterances;  they  are  often 
clever,  joyous,  hilarious;  they  are  replete  with  illuminating 
comment  upon  his  own  times  and  times  long  past;  they  are 
not  infrequently  superb  examples  of  easy  and  graceful  writ- 
ing; but  their  special  worth  is  due  to  their  subjectivity,  to 
the  clearness  and  fulness  with  which  the  writer  himself  ap- 
pears in  them.  The  reader  is  assured  after  a  time  that  he 
knows  Charles  Lamb  through  his  letters  much  as  he  knows 
Dr.  Johnson  through  the  greatest  of  biographies.  The  two 
men  have  perhaps  little  in  common,  but  they  are  alike  in 
this,  that  their  permanence  in  the  affection  of  readers  is  due 
primarily  to  the  charm  of  fully-revealed  engaging  personality. 
Lamb  is  "more  than  an  author  to  those  who  know  him," 
says  Augustus  Jessopp.  "He  is  a  presence,  a  presiding  genius; 
he  goes  in  and  out  with  you,  haunts  you  in  the  kindest,  gentlest 
way."  So  complete  is  his  mastery  over  his  readers  that  they 
espouse  his  cause  as  if  he  were  a  friend  whose  name  must 
be  shielded  from  every  stain.  They  deny  that  he  drank  to 
excess,  that  he  smoked  too  much,  even  that  he  stammered 
more  than  was  meet.  They  resent  Carlyle's  unsympathetic 
paragraph.  They  are  contemptuous  of  those  who  speak 
of  "poor  Charles  Lamb,"  of  "gentle  Charles."  They  re- 
mind us,  as  does  Mr.  Birrell,  that  he  "earned  his  own  living, 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

paid  his  own  way,  was  the  helper,  not  the  helped;  a  man 
who  was  beholden  to  no  one,  who  always  came  with  gifts 
in  his  hand,  a  shrewd  man  capable  of  advice,  strong  in  coun- 
cil." It  is  no  slight  testimony  to  the  personality  of  a  man, 
and  to  the  symmetry  and  completeness  of  his  self -portraiture, 
that  three  generations  after  his  death  readers  should  grow 
warm  in  discussion  of  his  private  character. 

Though  Swinburne  asserted  that  Edward  FitzGerald  gave 
"Omar  Khayyam  a  place  forever  among  the  greatest  Eng- 
lish poets,"  it  is  not  as  translator  and  poet  that  he  is  likely 
to  be  longest  cherished.  Gorgeous  and  imposing  though  it 
is,  the  Rubdiydt,  now  that  the  languid  pessimism  of  the  last 
century  has  given  place  to  a  healthier  mood,  will  hardly 
again  make  the  impression  that  it  made  a  few  years  ago. 
FitzGerald's  letters,  however,  appear  to  be  growing  in  favor 
year  by  year.  Indeed,  it  is  a  comforting  detail  of  literary 
history,  in  itself  an  indication  of  the  essential  soundness  of 
taste,  that  since  the  publication  of  the  first  selection  from 
his  letters  in  1889,  FitzGerald  should  have  gained  the  high 
place  he  now  occupies  in  the  fraternity  of  letter- writers.  This 
position  he  is  likely  to  retain,  for  he  has  come  to  it  by  the 
way  of  genuine,  spontaneous  recognition.  So  substantial 
is  his  fame  that  probably  most  readers  conversant  with  nine- 
teenth century  correspondence  consider  him  the  choicest 
letter-writer  of  the  period.  His  excellence,  like  that  of  Lowell 
and  Lamb,  is  closely  entwined  with  the  subtle  element  of 
personality;  but  with  FitzGerald  there  intrudes  a  special 
and  piquant  quality  such  as  one  does  not  perceive  in  the 
other  two.  About  him  there  is  a  brooding  melancholy;  his 
very  portraits  express  a  '  vague  trouble/  as  if  life  had  promised 
great  things  and  then  had  duped  him.  Not  that  he  ever 
says  much  about  his  feelings,  unless  they  be  pleasant  ones: 
he  is  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  inflict  his  troubles  need- 
lessly upon  his  friends.  But  always,  in  his  delicate  humor, 
in  his  keen  analyses  of  men  and  things,  in  his  dainty  and 
graceful  descriptions  of  garden,  field,  and  sea,  in  his  leisurely 
and  discriminating  comments  on  his  favorite  authors  and 
painters  and  composers,  one  detects  a  minor  chord  of  pene- 
trating and  ineluctable  sadness.  It  is  of  course  the  more 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

moving  because  not  distinctly  heard;  blent  with  laughter 
and  gracious  talk,  it  gains  poignancy  by  contrast  and  lends 
to  the  whole  personality  a  sense  of  mystery  that  amply  justi- 
fies Mr.  Benson  in  calling  him  "the  Hamlet  of  literature." 
Unless  we  are  apprised  of  some  particular  contingency, 
we  assume  that  by  'a  letter'  is  meant  a  communication 
between  two  persons.  So  soon  as  the  writer  appears  to  ad- 
dress a  group,  or  permits  the  supposition  that  what  he  writes 
will  serve  the  interest  of  others  besides  his  correspondent, 
his  writing  is  no  longer  a  letter  as  we  habitually  understand 
the  term.  In  writing  to  Jane  Welsh  in  1822  Carlyle  indi- 
cates his  view  of  the  matter.  "It  seems  to  me  that  the  chief 
end  of  letters  is  to  exhibit  to  each  a  picture  of  the  other's 
soul, — of  all  the  hopes  and  fears  that  agitate  us,  the  joys  and 
sorrows  and  varied  anxieties  in  which  a  heart 's-friend  may 
be  expected  to  sympathise :  and  if  I  may  trust  my  own  judge- 
ment, this  employment  is  even  more  useful  (I  say  not  a  word 
of  the  delight  attending  it)  than  any  other  to  which  our  im- 
perfect means  of  communication  can  be  devoted."  Such 
a  'picture,'  obviously,  it  will  not  be  possible  to  draw  if  the 
draughtsman  must  consider  a  variety  of  judgments,  a  di- 
versity of  degrees  of  sympathy.  When  a  student  at  Oxford 
in  1860,  John  Addington  Symonds  wrote  to  his  sister:  "I 
wish  you  would  pay  more  attention  to  the  writing  of  letters. 
I  am  not  the  proper  person  to  read  you  a  sermon  upon  this 
subject,  because  I  do  not  think  that  the  specimens  I  send 
you  are  at  all  what  letters  should  be.  Yet  I  labour  under 
the  disadvantage  of  writing  to  a  mixed  audience.  You  have 
only  me  to  talk  to,  and,  moreover,  being  a  lady,  are  per- 
haps more  bound  to  write  good  letters.  I  think  you  should 
consider  more  to  whom  you  are  writing,  in  each  instance, 
and  try  to  say  something  suitable  to  the  tastes,  &c.,  of  the 
individual."  "To  speak  of  oneself  is,  they  say,  a  privilege 
of  friendship,"  wrote  Jane  Welsh,  but  to  "speak  of  oneself" 
as  the  best  letter- writers  have  done,  and  as  she  often  did,  is 
easy  only  in  the  simple  relationship  of  single  mind  to  single 
mind.  It  is  characteristic  of  a  good  letter  that  it  should 
seem  to  be  overheard.  When  one  learns  that  Pope  adroitly 
effected  the  publication  of  his  own  letters,  or  that  Lady  Mary 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

exhorted  her  correspondents  to  keep  her  letters,  alleging 
that  they  would  be  "as  good  as  Madame  de  Sevigne's  forty 
years  hence,"  or  that  Stevenson  wrote  some  of  his  Vailima 
letters  with  a  view  to  their  being  published — an  idea  which 
he  ultimately  abandoned, — one's  appreciation,  though  it  re- 
mains keen,  is  radically  modified.  Judged  simply  as  letters, 
one  may  venture  to  say,  Steele's  hurried,  often  illegible  notes 
to  the  exacting  Prue  are  superior  to  many  of  Stevenson's 
brilliant  accounts  of  life  in  the  South  Seas.  It  is  not  merely 
that  one's  curiosity  about  Steele  and  his  wife  is  gratified: 
rather,  one  feels  that  Steele's  uncertain  excuses  are  real 
letters,  that  they  served  as  genuine  communications  between 
two  persons,  the  only  persons  who  were  really  concerned. 

Though  it  is  typical  of  good  letters  that  they  should  seem 
to  be  overheard,  there  is  a  certain  limitation  as  to  the  degree 
of  intrusion  consistent  with  literary  enjoyment.  It  is  for 
this  reason,  most  probably,  that  published  love  letters  are 
usually  unsatisfactory.  When  the  reader  is  continually  re- 
minded that  he  is  trespassing  upon  privacy,  that  he  is  read- 
ing what  the  two  persons  originally  interested  would  have 
wished  unread  by  strangers,  the  legitimate  pleasure  that 
he  normally  takes  in  letters  suffers  from  a  sense  of  indelicacy. 
The  time  may  come  when  the  letters  of  John  Keats  to  Fanny 
Brawne  will  not  make  readers  uncomfortable,  but  it  will  be 
a  time  when  Keats  is  far  more  remote  than  he  is  at  present, 
as  remote,  let  us  say,  as  Dorothy  Osborne  seems  to  our  gen- 
eration. In  reading  the  Browning  letters  it  is  difficult  to 
escape  the  suspicion  that  one  is  a  vulgarian.  What  should 
be  done  with  the  love  letters  of  men  and  women  in  whom 
the  public  has  a  certain  right  of  ownership  is  a  complicated 
question,  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  early  publica- 
tion of  such  letters  is  more  or  less  shameful,  or  that  their 
very  intimacy  tends  to  obscure  such  intrinsic  artistic  merit 
as  they  may  possess.  Just  as  one  turns  away  when  the  face 
of  a  grown  man  is  distorted  with  grief,  one  feels  embarrass- 
ment in  contemplating  the  superexaltation  of  a  celebrated 
author  in  the  experience  of  love. 

"Letters  ought  to  be  nothing  but  extempore  conversation 
on  paper,"  wrote  Horace  Walpole  to  Lady  Ossory,  and  the 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

expression  reminds  us  that  many  letters  owe  their  vitality 
to  a  characteristic  quite  distinct  from  those  of  personality 
and  intimacy  in  the  sense  in  which  we  think  of  those  ele- 
ments in  reading  such  men  as  Lamb  or  Lowell  or  FitzGerald. 
What  "extempore  conversation"  meant  to  Walpole  we  may 
learn  from  his  frequent  characterizations  of  his  own  mental 
habit.  "  I  am  certainly  the  greatest  philosopher  in  the  world," 
he  wrote  to  Conway  in  1774,  "without  ever  having  thought 
of  being  so;  always  employed  and  never  busy;  eager  about 
trifles  and  indifferent  to  everything  serious.  Well,  if  it  is 
not  philosophy,  at  least  it  is  content."  To  be  "eager  about 
trifles"  and  "indifferent  to  everything  serious" — this  is  a 
mood,  heightened  or  softened  in  particular  letter-writers, 
that  often  goes  far  to  atone  for  the  lack  of  an  engaging  per- 
sonality. It  is  not  necessary  to  respect  Horace  Walpole  to 
find  his  letters  diverting.  "Fiddles  sing  all  through  them," 
says  Thackeray;  "wax-lights,  fine  dresses,  fine  jokes,  fine 
plate,  fine  coaches,  glitter  and  sparkle  there.  Never  was 
such  a  brilliant  Vanity  Fair  as  that  through  which  he  leads 
us."  One  may  have  but  a  moderate  liking  for  Lord  Byron 
as  a  man  and  yet  relish  his  astonishing  animation  and  facility. 
The  "invincible  confidence"  of  Wordsworth,  the  simple, 
unreflecting  trust  that  Coleridge  reposes  in  his  own  genius, 
the  majestic  sense  of  a  high  calling  in  Carlyle,  the  detach- 
ment of  Shelley  from  ordinary  human  interests,  the  burning 
intensity  of  Keats,  these  are  personal  and  subjective  notes 
with  which  the  reader  would  wish  to  acquaint  himself,  but 
there  are  times  when  he  does  not  desire  to  consider  too  cu- 
riously, when  he  is  m  no  frame  of  mind  to  be  improved,  when 
it  is  a  matter  of  relative  indifference  to  him  whether  Pan- 
tisocracy  was  a  thought  purely  celestial  or  merely  mad. 
He  is  prepared  on  occasion  to  read  Coleridge's  solemn  ar- 
raignment of  Southey,  but  "not  now."  He  turns  to  Sydney 
Smith,  who  will  not  long  be  serious,  or  to  Edward  Lear,  who 
cannot;  or  to  Thomas  Hood,  or  Holmes,  or  Thackeray,  or 
Meredith,  who  are  likely  to  treat  life  lightly  and  pleasantly. 
A  gentleman,  according  to  Newman's  classic  definition,  is 
"one  who  never  inflicts  pain."  Of  no  small  number  of  the 
best  letters  in  the  language  it  may  be  said  that  they  illus- 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

trate  the  considerateness  and  the  reserve  of  the  well-bred, 
and  the  cheerful  if  somewhat  artificial  vivacity  of  society. 
Their  authors  ignore  the  existence  of  annoyances  or  treat 
them  as  themes  for  subdued  jesting.  They  indulge  us  in 
that  delight  in  disorder  of  which  we  are  frequently  conscious. 
Nonchalant,  or  apparently  so,  as  to  the  sombre  and  tragic 
aspects  of  life,  they  let  the  lambent  gleams  of  their  wit  and 
humor  play  upon  the  surface  of  things. 

It  is  usually  assumed  that  even  the  best  of  the  letter- 
writers  of  the  nineteenth  century  are  inferior  to  those  of 
the  eighteenth,  that  they  fall  short  of  the  standard  set  by 
Lady  Mary,  Walpole,  Gray,  Cowper,  and  their  contempo- 
raries in  the  'golden  age  of  letter-writing/  Inasmuch  as  we 
are  not  altogether  clear  as  to  the  particular  desiderata  which 
we  should  demand  in  a  letter,  such  a  judgment  as  to  the  re- 
spective products  of  the  two  centuries  is  venturesome.  It 
may  be  conceded  that  anyone  who  contends  for  the  superior- 
ity of  nineteenth  century  correspondence  may  be  unduly 
influenced  by  the  interest  that  he  naturally  takes  in  persons 
and  events  close  to  his  own  day;  it  must  be  admitted,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  often  no  negligible  part  of  the  charm 
of  the  eighteenth  century  letter  is  due  to  a  certain  appear- 
ance of  quaintness  in  manner  resulting  merely  from  the  pas- 
sage of  time.  Gilbert  White's  letter  to  Mrs.  Chapone  on 
Timothy  the  tortoise  is  no  better  than  Dickens's  account 
of  the  death  of  his  raven,  or  than  Stevenson's  offer  to  Cosmo 
Monkhouse  to  trade  bodies.  The  advantage  which  White's 
'sorrowful  reptile'  enjoys  is  due  largely  to  the  surprise  and 
pleasure  we  feel  in  discovering  that  the  Selborne  naturalist's 
imagination  and  humor  are  still  thoroughly  alive,  in  spite 
of  a  formal  style,  after  the  lapse  of  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
five  years. 

Without  question  the  changes  that  took  place  during  the 
nineteenth  century  in  the  method  of  disseminating  public 
information  wrought  in  some  degree  to  an  enrichment  in 
the  content  of  letters.  In  the  older  time,  the  correspondent 
was  in  duty  bound  to  furnish  the  kind  of  news  which,  at  a 
later  day,  the  newspaper  conveyed  more  satisfactorily;  he 
often  loaded  his  pages  with  matter  which  no  grace  of  manner 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

could  invest  with  charm,  and  he  left  little  room  for  discuss- 
ing, what  now  interests  us  most,  himself  and  his  little,  im- 
mediate world. 

Often,  indeed,  the  eighteenth  century  letter-writer  was 
quite  disinclined  to  say  much  either  about  himself  or  about 
his  immediate  world.  Until  fairly  late  in  the  century  he 
was  likely  to  be  a  man  untouched  by  romanticism,  unac- 
customed to  introspection,  and  inattentive  to  Nature.  What- 
ever the  affectations  and  excesses  to  which  the  Romantic 
Movement  led,  it  made  possible,  in  the  happier  instances, 
an  absorbing  self -portrayal;  and,  no  less  important,  it  opened 
the  eyes  of  men  and  women  to  the  beauty  of  flower  and  tree, 
of  mountain  and  torrent,  of  soughing  wind  and  gleaming 
star,  to  all  the  incredible  pageantry  of  the  physical  world 
which  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  and  Shelley  and  Keats 
knew  and  interpreted.  As  the  crest  of  the  romantic  wave 
passed,  the  egotism  that  had  at  times  been  portentous 
was  relieved  by  a  growth  in  the  power  of  self-criticism,  and 
by  an  increase  in  appreciation  of  the  value  of  perspective. 
Men  seemed  less  inspired  but  more  normal.  They  acquired 
a  taste  for  looking  at  things  from  more  than  one  point  of 
view.  Still  subjective,  still  observant,  they  became  more 
tolerant  and  more  urbane.  In  no  type  of  literature  is  the 
effect  of  these  changes  more  noteworthy  than  in  the  letter; 
in  no  form  of  WTiting  is  there  a  clearer  or  happier  reflection 
of  the  state  of  literary  taste  and  feeling  that  resulted  from 
the  rise  of  romanticism  and  its  subsequent  gradual  adjust- 
ment to  every-day  human  life.  Without  wishing  to  be  dog- 
matic, or  to  underestimate  the  achievement  of  a  remoter 
past,  one  is  surely  warranted  in  regarding  many  of  the  letters 
of  the  latter  part  of  the  nineteenth  century  as  eminently 
felicitous  examples  of  epistolary  correspondence.  To  read 
the  letters  of  Edward  FitzGerald,  of  James  Russell  Lowell, 
of  George  Meredith,  and  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  is  to 
feel  the  subtle  and  lasting  charm  that  is  induced  by  blending 
in  one  genre  deftly-depicted  personality,  a  comfortable  sense 
of  intimacy,  and  the  alert  urbanity  of  cultivated  society. 
Whatever  the  future  development  of  the  letter  may  be — 
a  development  that  the  postal  card,  the  telegraph,  the  tele- 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

phone,  and  the  typewriter  will  probably  affect  but  slightly — 
it  is  scarcely  conceivable  that  there  should  be  for  generations 
to  come  a  significant  and  satisfying  letter-literature  which 
will  not  owe  its  salient  merits  to  the  heritage  bequeathed 
by  letter-writers  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

BYRON  J.  REES. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  editor  takes  pleasure  in  recording  his  obligation  to 
the  various  publishers  who  have  kindly  permitted  him  to 
include  in  this  collection  letters  of  which  they  control  the 
copyright.  More  particularly  would  ^e  extend  his  thanks 
to  D.  Appleton  and  Company  for  leave  to  print  four  letters 
from  Parke  Godwin's  A  Biography  of  William  Cullen  Bryant, 
and  another  from  Leonard  Huxley's  Life  and  Letters  of 
Thomas  Henry  Huxley;  to  The  Century  Company  for  three 
letters  from  Nicolay  and  Hay's  The  Complete  Works  of 
Abraham  Lincoln,  and  for  three  letters  by  Sir  Walter  Scott 
first  printed  in  1903  in  the  July  and  August  numbers  of  the 
Century  Magazine;  to  Dodd,  Mead,  and  Company  for  a 
letter  from  The  Letters  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  to  Elizabeth 
Hitchener;  to  Duffield  and  Company  for  a  letter  from  The 
Letters  of  Edward  Lear,  and  another  from  The  Later  Letters 
of  Edward  Lear ;  to  E.  P.  Button  and  Company  for  a  letter 
by  Bishop  Brooks  from  Professor  Allen's  Life  and  Letters  of 
Phillips  Brooks.  '•  .-. 

Harper  and  Brothers  have  generously  permitted  the  re- 
printing of  twenty-one  letters  from  The  Letters  of  James  Rus- 
sell Lowell,  edited  by  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  together  with 
three  letters  by  Macaulay  from  Trevelyan's  Life  and  Letters 
of  Lord  Macaulay,  a  letter  by  Ruskin,  and  one  by  Willis  from 
L'Estrange's  The  Friendships  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  a 
letter  by  George  Eliot  from  J.  W.  Cross's  The  Life  of  George 
Eliot,  three  letters  from  The  Correspondence  of  John  Lothrop 
Motley,  and  a  letter  by  Fitz- James  O'Brien  from  The  House 
of  Harper. 

By  special  arrangement  The  Houghton  Mifflin  Company 
have  granted  the  use  of  two  letters  from  Frank  B.  Sanborn's 
Familiar  Letters  of  Henry  David  Thoreau;  three  letters  by 

xxiii 


xxiv  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Poe  from  G.  E.  Woodberry's  The  Life  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe;  a 
letter  by  Emerson  from  The  Correspondence  of  Thomas  Car- 
lyle and  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  and  two  from  A  Memoir  of 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson ;  three  letters  from  Pickard's  The  Life 
and  Letters  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier ;  and  three  letters  from 
J.  T.  Morse's  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

Five  letters  here  printed  are  from  The  Love  Letters  of 
Thomas  Carlyle  and  Jane  Welsh,  edited  by  A.  Carlyle  and 
published  by  the  John  Lane  Company.  The  letter  by  Rufus 
Choate  is  from  S.  G.  Brown's  The  Life  of  Rufus  Choate,  of 
which  Little,  Brown,  and  Company  are  the  publishers.  To 
The  Macmillan  Company  the  editor's  thanks  are  due  for  two 
letters  by  Robert  Browning  and  two  by  Mrs.  Browning  from 
The  Letters  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning ;  as  also  for  six  let- 
ters from  The  Letters  of  Matthew  Arnold.  The  Japanese  let- 
ter on  "Pro-nothings"  is  reprinted  by  permission  of  the  edi- 
tor of  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  David  A.  Curtis,  of  Yarmouthville,  Me., 
have  consented  to  the  publication  of  the  rhyming  letter 
from  their  son,  Sergeant  Curtis.  Andrew  Snow,  Jr.,  of 
South  Dartmouth,  Mass.,  the  owner  of  the  original  of  Cap- 
tain Clough's  extraordinary  letter,  has  obligingly  permitted 
its  publication. 

The  editor  desires  to  express  here  his  appreciation  of  the 
assistance  afforded  him  by  Mr.  Maxwell  E.  Perkins,  of 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons;  both  his  skill  and  his  courtesy  have 
been  unfailing.  To  Mr.  Henry  W.  King,  to  Mr.  Van  Henry 
Cartmell,  Jr.,  and  to  Mr.  Graham  Ryle  the  editor  would 
offer  his  hearty  thanks  for  valuable  suggestions  concerning 
selections  from  the  letters  of  favourite  authors. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 
LETTERS 


.  42]  WILLIAM   BLAKE      • 

1757-1827 
To  JOHN  FLAXMAN 

[A   ROOF   OF   RUSTED   GOLD] 

FELPHAM,  21st   September,  1800, 

Sunday  Morning. 
Dear  Sculptor  of  Eternity, — 

We  are  safe  arrived  at  our  cottage,  which  is  more 
beautiful  than  I  thought  it,  and  more  convenient.  It  is 
a  perfect  model  for  cottages,  and  I  think  for  palaces  of 
magnificence,  only  enlarging,  not  altering  its  proportions 
and  adding  ornaments  and  not  principles.  Nothing  can 
be  more  grand  than  its  simplicity  and  usefulness.  Simple 
without  intricacy,  it  seems  to  be  the  spontaneous  expres- 
sion of  humanity,  congenial  to  the  wants  of  man.  No 
other  formed  house  can  ever  please  me  so  well;  nor  shall 
I  ever  be  persuaded,  I  believe,  that  it  can  be  improved 
either  in  beauty  or  use. 

Mr.  Hayley  received  us  with  his  usual  brotherly  affec- 
tion. I  have  begun  to  work.  Felpham  is  a  sweet  place 
for  study,  because  it  is  more  spiritual  than  London. 
Heaven  opens  here  on  all  sides  her  golden  gates;  her 
windows  are  not  obstructed  by  vapours;  voices  of  celes- 
tial inhabitants  are  more  distinctly  heard  and  their 
forms  more  distinctly  seen;  and  my  cottage  is  also  a 
shadow  of  their  houses.  My  wife  and  sister  are  both  well, 
courting  Neptune  for  an  embrace. 

Our  journey  was  very  pleasant;  and  though  we  had  a 
great  deal  of  luggage,  no  grumbling.  All  was  cheerful- 
ness and  good  humour  on  the  road,  and  yet  we  could  not 
arrive  at  our  cottage  before  half-past  eleven  at  night, 

1 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  ^Et.  42 


owing  to  the  necessary  shifting  of  our  luggage  from  one 
chaise  to  another;  for  we  had  seven  different  chaises,  and 
as  many  different  drivers.  We  set  out  between  six  and 
seven  in  the  morning  of  Thursday,  with  sixteen  heavy 
boxes  and  portfolios  full  of  prints. 

And  now  begins  a  new  life,  because  another  covering 
of  earth  is  shaken  off.  I  am  more  famed  in  heaven  for 
my  works  than  I  could  well  conceive.  In  my  brain  are 
studies  and  chambers  filled  with  books  and  pictures  of 
old,  which  I  wrote  and  painted  in  ages  of  eternity  before 
my  mortal  life;  and  those  works  are  the  delight  and 
study  of  archangels.  Why,  then,  should  I  be  anxious 
about  the  riches  and  fame  of  mortality?  The  Lord  our 
Father  will  do  for  us  and  with  us  according  to  His  divine 
will  for  our  good. 

You,  0  dear  Flaxman!  are  a  sublime  archangel,  —  my 
friend  and  companion  from  eternity.  In  the  divine 
bosom  in  our  dwelling-place,  I  look  back  into  the  regions 
of  reminiscence,  and  behold  our  ancient  days  before  this 
earth  appeared  in  its  vegetated  mortality*  to  my  mortal 
vegetated  eyes.  I  see  our  houses  of  eternity,  which  can 
never  be  separated,  though  our  mortal  vehicles  should 
stand  at  the  remotest  corners  of  heaven  from  each  other. 

Farewell,  my  best  Friend  !  E  3member  me  and  my  wife 
in  love  and  friendship  to  our  dear  Mrs.  Flaxman,  whom 
we  ardently  desire  to  entertain  beneath  our  thatched 
roof  of  rusted  gold.  And  believe  me  for  ever  to  remain 
your  grateful  and  affectionate 

WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

*  For  Blake's  use  of  the  word,  cf.  Jerusalem,  p.  77:  "Imagination,  the 
real  and  eternal  World  of  which  this  Vegetable  Universe  is  but  a  faint 
shadow,  and  in  which  we  shall  live  in  our  Eternal  or  Imaginative  Bodies, 
when  these  Vegetable  Mortal  Bodies  are  no  more."  (A.  G.  B.  Russell.) 


53]  SAMUEL   KOGEES 

1763-1855 

To  SARAH  E'OGERS 

[TEA  WITH  THE  WORDSWORTHS] 

LOW-WOOD  INN: 

Friday  morning,  28  Aug.,  1816. 
My  dear  Sarah, — 

I  should  have  written  before,  but  the  last  post  here  I 
missed,  and  there  is  one  here  only  every  other  day.  I 
travelled  to  Leicester,  where  I  arrived  at  11  at  night, 
without  an  incident,  only  that  in  Wells's  Row,  Islington, 
we  took  up  an  old  lady  blind  and  deaf,  whose  only  pleas- 
ure seemed  to  be  to  shake  hands  with  us  all  round  very 
often.  She  spoke,  however,  of  her  dinner  with  great 
pleasure,  and  expressed  a  wish  that  she  might  have  some 
fish,  an  observation  to  which  we  could  make  no  reply. 
Left  Leicester  next  morning  at  half -past  five  in  an  empty 
coach,  and  at  eleven  found  myself  at  Moore's.  His  cot- 
tage is  all  alone  in  a  pretty  little  valley  with  fields  and 
woods  about  it,  and  is  new  and  neat.  They  say,  however, 
it  is  leaky  and  smoky.  She  struck  me  as  much  taller  and 
much  improved  in  expression,  and,  still  very  handsome, 
tho'  a  little  of  her  lustre  is  gone,  and  she  is  thinner.  But 
she  surprised  me  agreeably,  and  would  be  admired  any- 
where. The  two  little  girls  are  not  pretty  nor  otherwise, 
and  quiet  and  merry  and  caressing  beyond  anything.  I 
wished  for  you  with  them  very  often,  and  they  had  made 
arrangements  for  you.  I  stayed  till  Sunday  —  having 
passed  into  Dovedale  with  M.  and  seen  Ham,  and  then 
went  off  alone  (for,  after  all,  he  left  me  in  the  lurch)  to 
Manchester.  Napped  there,  and  at  one  in  the  morning 
came  on  in  the  mail  to  Kendal,  arriving  here  On  Monday 
at  three.  On  Tuesday,  after  a  row  on  the  lake,  I  walked 
and  drank  tea  with  the  Wordsworths,  who  are  all  as  be- 
fore. They  still  talk  of  their  day  with  you  on  the  Thames, 
and  Miss  W.  counts  the  years  since  she  saw  you.  Their 
present  abode  is  princely — by  the  side  of  Rydal  Hall. 
Their  windows  command  Windermere,  and  their  garden 
(Miss  H.  and  the  clerk  keep  it  full  of  flowers)  looks  down 
upon  Rydal  water.  I  was  asking  my  way  to  them  at  a 

3 


4  MAKIA   EDGEWOKTH  [.Et.  27 

cottage  door  in  the  road,  when  the  child  I  spoke  to  ran 
in,  and  a  little  girl  came  smiling  out  and  took  my  hand 
with  a  curtsey.  It  was  Miss  W.,  as  I  guessed,  who  had 
called  to  ask  after  a  child  in  the  measles,  and  she  con- 
ducted me  to  their  house.  Yesterday  I  dined  there,  and 
to-day  he  spends  the  day  with  me.  He  is  very  cheerful 
and  pleasant,  and  so  are  they  all.  I  believe  they  heard  of 
my  arrival  a  few  minutes  after  I  came,  for  they  called 
early  the  next  day  while  I  was  on  the  water.  'The  weather 
here  has  been  wretched.  Now  it  is  mending  a  little,  but 
still  cold  and  cheerless — the  Moores  live  by  a  fire,  and 
so  do  the  Ws.,  and  I  live  in  my  great-coat.  I  am  now 
writing  in  it.  What  will  become  of  me,  I  am  at  a  loss 
to  say — but  my  heart  fails  me,  and  I  think  I  shall  go  on 
no*  further.  Pray  write,  my  dear  Sarah,  and  tell  me  your 
plans,  to  Low-wood — if  you  write  in  four  or  five  days, 
but  afterwards  to  Keswick.  The  regatta  here  is  next 
Wednesday,  and  W.  offers  to  accompany  me  to  Ulleswater, 
an  offer  I  am  glad  to  accept,  so  I  think  I  shall  not  be  at 
K.  before  the  end  of  next  week.  Pray  remember  me  very 
affectionately  to  all,  and  believe  me  to  be, 

Ever  yours, 

S.  B. 


.  27]  MARIA   EDGEWORTH 

1767-1849 

To  Miss  SOPHY  RUXTON 
[BOOKS  AND  EXPERIMENTS] 

EDGEWORTHSTOWN,  July  2,  1794, 
having  the  honour  to  be  the 
fair  day  of  Edgeworthstown, 
as  is  well  proclaimed  to  the 
neighbourhood  by  the  noise 
of  pigs  squeaking,  men  bawl- 
ing, women  brawling,  and 
children  squealing,  etc. 

I  will  tell  you  what   is  going  on,   that  you  may   see 
whether  you  like  your  daily  bill  of  fare. 

There  are,  an't  please  you,  ma'am,  a  great  many  good 
things   here.     There   is  a  balloon  hanging  up,   and   an- 


j£t.  27]  MAKIA   EDGEWORTH  5 

other  going  to  be  put  on  the  stocks;  there  is  soap  made, 
and  making  from  a  receipt  in  Nicholson's  "Chemistry"; 
there  is  excellent  ink  made,  and  to  be  made  by  the  same 
book;  there  is  a  cake  of  roses  just  squeezed  in  a  vise, 
by  my  father,  according  to  the  advice  of  Madame  De 
Lagaraye,  the  woman  in  the  black  cloak  and  ruffles,  who 
weighs  with  unwearied  scales,  in  the  frontispiece  of  a 
book,  which  perhaps  my  aunt  remembers,  entitled 
"Chemie  de  Gout  et  de  1'Odorat."  There  are  a  set  of 
accurate  weights,  just  completed  by  the  ingenious  Messrs. 
Lovell  and  Henry  Edgeworth,  partners :  for  Henry  is  now 
a  junior  partner,  and  grown  an  inch  and  a  half  upon  the 
strength  of  it  in  two  months.  The  use  and  ingenuity  of 
these  weights  I  do,  or  did,  understand;  it  is  great,  but  I 
am  afraid  of  puzzling  you  and  disgracing  myself  attempt- 
ing to  explain  it;  especially  as,  my  mother  says,  I  once 
sent  you  a  receipt  for  purifying  water  with  charcoal, 
which  she  avers  to  have  been  above,  or  below,  the  com- 
prehension of  any  rational  being. 

My  father  bought  a  great  many  books  at  Mr.  Dean's 
sale.  Six  volumes  of  "Machines  Approuves,"  full  of 
prints  of  paper  mills,  gunpowder  mills,  machines  pour 
remonter  les  batteaux,  machines  pour — a  great  many 
things  which  you  would  like  to  see,  I  am  sure,  over  my 
father's  shoulder.  And  my  aunt  would  like  to  see  the 
new  staircase,  and  to  see  a  kitcat*  view  of  a  robin  red- 
breast sitting  on  her  nest  in  a  sawpit,  discovered  by 
Lovell;  and  you  would  both  like  to  pick  Emmeline's  fine 
strawberries  round  the  crowded  oval  table  after  dinner, 
and  to  see  my  mother  look  so  much  better  in  the  midst 
of  us. 

If  these  delights  thy  soul  can  move, 
-  Come  live  with  us  and  be  our  love. 

*  A  name  given  to  the  small  portraits  (thirty-six  by  twenty-eight 
inches)  painted  by  Kneller,  of  the  members  of  the  Kit  Cat  Club. 


6  MARIA   EDGEWOETH  [^Et.  56 

.  56] 


To  MRS.  RUXTON 

[AN   EVENING  AT   SIR  WALTER 

EDINBURGH,  32  Abercromby  Place, 

June  8th,  1823. 

You  have  had  our  history  up  to  Kinneil  House.  Mr. 
and  Miss  Stewart  accompanied  us  some  miles  on  our  road 
to  show  us  the  palace  of  Linlithgow  —  very  interesting  to 
see.  but  not  to  describe.  The  drive  from  Linlithgow  to 
Edinburgh  is  nothing  extraordinary,  but  the  road  ap- 
proaching the  city  is  grand,  and  the  first  view  of  the 
castle  and  "mine  own  romantic  town"  delighted  my  com- 
panions; the  day  was  fine  and  they  were  sitting  outside 
on  the  barouche  seat  —  a  seat  which  you,  my  dear  aunt, 
would  not  have  envied  them  with  all  their  fine  prospects. 
By  this  approach  to  Edinburgh,  there  are  no  suburbs; 
you  drive  at  once  through  magnificent  broad  streets  and 
-fine  squares.  All  the  houses  are  of  stone,  darker  than  the 
Ardbraccan  stone,  and  of  a  kind  that  is  little  injured  by 
weather  or  time.  Margaret  Alison  had  taken  lodgings 
for  us  in  Abercromby  Place  —  finely  built,  with  hanging 
shrubbery  garden,  and  the  house  as  delightful  as  the  situ- 
ation. As  soon  as  we  had  unpacked  and  arranged  our 
things  the  evening  of  our  arrival,  we  walked,  about  ten 
minutes'  distance  from  us,  to  our  dear  old  friends,  the 
Alisons.  We  found  them  shawled  and  bonneted,  just 
coming  to  see  us.  Mr.  Alison  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  had 
settled  that  we  should  dine  the  first  day  after  our  arrival 
with  Mr.  Alison,  which  was  just  what  we  wished;  but  on 
our  return  home  we  found  a  note  from  Sir  Walter: 

"Dear  Miss  Edgeworth, 

I  have  just  received  your  kind  note,  just  when  I  had 
persuaded  myself  it  was  most  likely  I  should  see  you  in 
person  or  hear  of  your  arrival.  Mr.  Alison  writes  to  me 
you  are  engaged  to  dine  with  him  to-morrow,  which  puts 
Roslin  out  of  the  question  for  that  day,  as  it  might  keep 
you  late.  On  Sunday  I  hope  you  will  join  our  family- 
party  at  five,  and  on  Monday  I  have  asked  one  or  two  of 
the  Northern  Lights  on  purpose  to  meet  you.  I  should 
be  engrossing  at  any  time,  but  we  shall  be  more  disposed 


Mi.  56]  MAKIA   EDGEWOETH  7 

to  be  so  just  now,  because  on  the  12th  I  am  under  the 
necessity  of  going  to  a  different  kingdom  (only  the  king- 
dom of  Fife)  for  a  day  or  two.  To-morrow,  if  it  is  quite 
agreeable,  I  will  wait  on  you  about  twelve,  and  hope  you 
will  permit  me  to  show  you  some  of  our  improvements. 
I  am  always, 

Most  respectfully  yours, 

WALTER  SCOTT. 
EDINBURGH,  Friday. 

Postscript. — Our  old  family  coach  is  licensed  to  carry 
six;  so  take  no  care  on  that  score.  I  inclose  Mr.  Alison's 
note;  truly  sorry  I  could  not  accept  the  invitation  it 
contains. 

Postscript. — My  wife  insists  I  shall  add  that  the  Laird 
of  Staffa  promised  to  look  in  on  us  this  evening  at  eight 
or  nine,  for  the  purpose  of  letting  us  hear  one  of  his 
clansmen  sing  some  Highland  boat-songs  and  the  like, 
and  that  if  you  will  come,  as  the  Irish  should  to  the 
Scotch,  without  any  ceremony,  you  will  hear  what  is 
perhaps  more  curious  than  mellifluous.  The  man  returns 
to  the  isles  to-morrow.  There  are  no  strangers  with  us; 
no  party;  none  but  all  our  own  family  and  two  old 
friends.  Moreover,  all  our  womankind  have  been  calling 
at  Gibbs's  hotel,  so  if  you  are  not  really  tired  and  late, 
you  have  not  even  pride,  the  ladies'  last  defense,  to  op- 
pose to  this  request.  But,  above  all,  do  not  fatigue  your- 
self and  the  young  ladies.  No  dressing  to  be  thought  of." 

Ten  o'clock  struck  as  I  read  the  note;  we  were  tired — 
we  were  not  fit  to  be  seen;  but  I  thought  it  right  to  ac- 
cept "Walter  Scott's"  cordial  invitation;  sent  for  a  hack- 
ney-coach, and  just,  as  we  were,  without  dressing,  went. 
As  the  coach  stopped,  we  saw -the  hall  lighted,  and  the 
moment  the  door  opened,  heard  the  joyous  sounds  of  loud 
singing.  Three  servants — "The  Miss  Edgeworths"  sounded 
from  hall  to  landing-place,  and  as  I  paused  for  a  moment 
in  the  anteroom,  I  heard  the  first  sound  of  Walter  Scott's 
voice — "The  Miss  Edgeworths  come." 

The  room  was  lighted  by  only  one  globe  lamp.  A  circle 
were  singing  loud  and  beating  time — all  stopped  in  an 
instant,  and  Walter  Scott  in  the  most  cordial  and  cour- 
teous manner  stepped  forward  to  welcome  us :  "Miss  Edge- 
worth,  this  is  so  kind  of  you!" 


8  MAKIA   EDGEWOKTH  [Mt.  56 

My  first  impression  was,  that  lie  was  neither  so  large 
nor  so  heavy  in  appearance  as  I  had  been  led  to  expect 
by  description,  prints,  bust,  and  picture.  He  is  more 
lame  than  I  expected,  but  not  unwieldy;  his  countenance, 
even  by  the  uncertain  light  in  which  I  first  saw  it,  pleased 
me  much;  benevolent,  and  full  of  genius  without  the 
slightest  effort  at  expression;  delightfully  natural,  as  if 
•he  did  not  know  he  was  Walter  Scott  or  the  Great  Un- 
known of  the  North,  as  if  he  only  thought  of  making 
others  happy.  After  naming  to  us  "Lady  Scott,  Staffa, 
my  daughter  Lockhart,  Sophia,  another  daughter  Anne, 
my  son,  my  son-in-law  Lockhart,"  just  in  the  broken 
circle  as  they  then  stood,  and  showing  me  that  only  his 
family  and  two  friends,  Mr.  Clark  and  Mr.  Sharpe,  were 
present,  he  sat  down  for  a  minute  beside  me  on  a  low 
sofa,  and  on  my  saying,  "Do  not  let  us  interrupt  what 
was  going  on,"  he  immediately  rose  and  begged  Staffa  to 
bid  his  boatman  strike  up  again.  "Will  you  then  join  in 
the  circle  with  us?"  He  put  the  end  of  a  silk  handker- 
chief into  my  hand,  and  others  into  my  sisters' ;  they  held 
by  these  handkerchiefs  all  in  their  circle  again,  and  the 
boatman  began  to  roar  out  a  Gaelic  song,  to  which  they 
all  stamped  in  time  and  repeated  the  chorus,  which,  as 
far  as  I  could  hear,  sounded  like  "At  am  Vaun!  At  am 
Vaun!"  frequently  repeated  with  prodigious  enthusiasm. 
In  another  I  could  make  out  no  intelligible  sound  but 
"Bar!  bar!  bar!"  But  the  boatman's  dark  eyes  were 
ready  to  start  out  of  his  head  with  rapture  as  he  sung  and 
stamped,  and  shook  the  handkerchief  on  each  side,  and 
the  circle  imitated. 

Lady  Scott  is  so  exactly  what  I  had  heard  her  described, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  seen  her  before.  She  must 
have  been  very  handsome — French  dark  large  eyes;  civil 
and  good  natured.  Supper  at  a  round  table,  a  family 
supper,  with  attention  to  us,  just  sufficient  and  no  more. 
The  impression  left  on  my  mind  this  night  was,  that 
Walter  Scott  is  one  of  the  best-bred  men  I  ever  saw,  with 
all  the  exquisite  politeness  which  he  knows  so  well  how 
to  describe,  which  is  of  no  particular  school  or  country, 
but  which  is  of  all  countries,  the  politeness  which  arises 
from  good  and  quick  sense  and  feeling,  which  seems  to 
know  by  instinct  the  characters  of  others,  to  see  what  will 


jst.  56]          MAKIA  EDGEWOKTH  9 

please,  and  put  all  his  guests  at  their  ease.  As  I  sat  be- 
side him  at  supper,  I  could  not  believe  he  was  a  stranger, 
and  forgot  he  was  a  great  man.  Mr.  Lockhart  is  very 
handsome,  quite  unlike  his  picture  in  Peters's  [sic]  let- 
ters. 

When  we  wakened  in  the  morning,  the  whole  scene  of 
the  preceding  night  seemed  like  a  dream;  however,  at 
twelve  came  the  real  Lady  Scott,  and  we  called  for  Scott 
at  the  Parliament  House,  who  came  out  of  the  Courts 
with  joyous  face  as  if  he  had  nothing  on  earth  to  do  or 
to  think  of,  but  to  show  us  Edinburgh.  Seeming  to  enjoy 
it  all  as  much  as  we  could,  he  carried  us  to  Parliament 
House — Advocate's  Library,  Castle,  and  Holyrood  House. 
His  conversation  all  the  time  better  than  anything  we 
could  see,  full  of  apropos  anecdote,  historic,  serious  or 
comic,  just  as  occasion  called  for  it,  and  all  with  a  bon- 
tfiomie  and  an  ease  that  made  us  forget  it  was  any  trouble 
even  to  his  lameness  to  mount  flights  of  eternal  stairs. 
Chantrey's  statues  of  Lord  Melville  and  President  Blair 
are  admirable.  There  is  another  by  Roubillac,  of  Duncan 
Forbes,  which  is  excellent.  Scott  is  enthusiastic  about 
the  beauties  of  Edinburgh,  and  well  he  may  be,  the  most 
magnificent  as  well  as  the  most  romantic  of  cities. 

We  dined  with  the  dear  good  Alisons.  Mr.  Alison  met 
me  at  the  drawing-room  door,  took  me  in  his  arms,  and 
gave  me  a  hearty  hug.  I  do  not  think  he  is  much  altered, 
only  that  his  locks  are  silvered  over.  At  this  dinner  were, 
besides  his  two  sons  and  two  daughters,  and  Mrs.  Alison, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Skene.  In  one  of  Scott's  introductions  to 
"Marmion"  you  will  find  this  Mr.  Skene,  Mr.  Hope,  the 
Scotch  Solicitor-General  (it  is  curious  the  Solicitor- 
Generals  of  Scotland  and  Ireland  should  be  Hope  and 
Joy!),  Dr.  Brewster,  and  Lord  Meadowbank,  and  Mrs. 
Maconachie,  his  wife.  Mr.  Alison  wanted  me  to  sit  be- 
side everybody,  and  I  wanted  to  sit  by  him,  and  this  I 
accomplished;  on  the  other  side  was  Mr.  Hope,  whose 
head  and  character  you  will  find  in  Peters's  letters:  he 
was  very  entertaining.  Sophy  sat  beside  Dr.  Brewster, 
and  had  a  great  deal  of  conversation  with  him. 

Next  day,  Sunday,  went  to  hear  Mr.  Alison;  his  fine 
voice  but  little  altered.  To  me  he  appears  the  best 
preacher  I  have  ever  heard.  Dined  at  Scott's;  only  his 


10  JOHN   HOOKHAM   FKEEE         [JEt.  65 

own  family,  his  friend  Skene,  his  wife  and  daughter,  and 
Sir  Henry  Stewart;  I  sat  beside  Scott;  I  dare  not  at- 
tempt at  this  moment  even  to  think  of  any  of  the  anec- 
dotes he  told,  the  fragments  of  poetry  he  repeated,  or  the 
observations  on  national  character  he  made,  lest  I  should 
be  tempted  to  write  some  of  them  for  you,  and  should 
never  end  this  letter,  which  must  be  ended  some  time  or 
other.  His  strong  affection  for  his  early  friends  and  his 
country  gives  a  power  and  a  charm  to  his  conversation, 
which  cannot  be  given  by  the  polish  of  the  London  world 
and  by  the  habit  of  literary  conversation. 

"Quentin  Durward"  was  lying  on  the  table.  Mrs.  Skene 
took  it  up  and  said,  "This  is  really  too  barefaced."  Scott, 
when  pointing  to  the  hospital  built  by  Heriot,  said,  "That 
was  built  by  one  Heriot,  you  know,  the  jeweler,  in  Charles 
the  Second's  time." 

There  was  an  arch  simplicity  in  his  look,  at  which  we 
could  hardly  forbear  laughing. 


[-fflt.  65]        JOHN   HOOKHAM   FKEEE 

1760-1846 
To  EDWARD  FRERE 
[BUILDING  A  WALL] 

MALTA,  April  9th,  1835. 
My  dear  Ned, 

I  have  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  yours  of  the  2nd 
March,  written  with  a  "real  pen,  real  ink,  and  real  paper." 
What  is  the  nonsense  which  that  puts  me  in  mind  of? 
Do  you  recollect?  It  was  something  of  poor  Bob  Olive's 
at  Putney  and  his  writing  master  at  home,  Mr.  Skelton 
by  name,  whose  figure  he  used  to  draw  on  the  blank  pages 
of  his  books.  .  .  .  It  is  not  the  less  true  that  the  sight 
of  your  real  ink  was  a  great  refreshment  to  my  eyes.  So 
much  for  the  form  and  material  characters  of  your  letter. 
For  the  substance,  I  am  truly  glad  that  your  bargain  for 
Turton  is  approaching  to  a  satisfactory  termination,  the 
more  so  as  I  trust  it  will  enable  you  to  inspect  us  here. 
Do  not  be  afraid  of  the  summer,  it  is  all  nonsense.  Ask 
William!  he  will  tell  you;  and  I  can  tell  you  that  I  am 
never  so  well  here  as  in  the  height  of  summer,  and  our 


Mt.  45]          WILLIAM   WOEDSWOETH  11 

constitutions,  I  take  it,  are  not  much  unlike.  Take  ex- 
ample by  the  old  Welsh  mules  which  are  sent  over  to  the 
West  Indies,  where  they  are  found  to  grow  young  again. 
You  will  see  how  I  am  ruining  'myself  with  building  (I 
dare  say  you  will  be  told  so,  if  you  remain  in  England). 
I  built  my  first  piece  of  wall  simply  by  the  Lesbian  rule, 
as  Aristotle  describes  it;  but  I  have  since  made  a  dis- 
covery of  the  true  Pelasgic  method,  and  am  finishing  the 
other  end  of  it  like  a  perfect  Cyclops,  such  as  Neptune 
employed  in  building  the  walls  of  Troy.  I  have  not  time 
to  explain  this,  so  you  must  come  and  judge  for  yourself 
on  the  spot,  and  stop  my  hand  if  you  think  I  am  likely 
to  do  myself  any  real  injury  by  the  expense,  for  my  archi- 
tect is  persuading  me  to  build  a  small  Doric  temple, 
though  the  cost,  even  according  to  his  own  statement,  will 
not  be  less  than  fifteen  pounds;  and  it  will  cost  me,  I  be- 
lieve, seven  or  eight  to  finish  my  wall  in  a  way  that  Sir 
W.  Gell  would  approve. 

I  have  been  running  on  with  nonsense  (from  which 
you  will  only  collect  that  I  am  well,  and  that  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  see  you),  while  you  are  looking  for  some  ac- 
count of  dear  S — .  She  is  the  most  cheerful  creature 
under  suffering  that  ever  was,  and  the  delight  of  every- 
body, including  even  that  old  uncle  of  hers.  You  know 
"she  is  living  with  an  old  uncle." 


[Ml.  45]        WILLIAM  WOEDSWOETF 

1770-1850 

To  BERNARD  BARTON 
[A  "PERPETUAL  RETAINER  FROM  INCAPACITY"] 

EYDAL  MOUNT,  near  Ambleside, 

Jan.  12,  1816. 
Dear  Sir, 

Though  my  sister,  during  my  absence,  has  returned 
thanks  in  my  name  for  the  verses  which  you  have  done 
me  the  honour  of  addressing  to  me,  and  for  the  obliging 
letter  which  accompanies  them,  I  feel  it  incumbent  on  me, 
on  my  return  home,  to  write  a  few  words  to  the  same 
purpose,  with  my  own  hand. 

It  is  always  a  satisfaction  to  me  to  learn  that  I  have 


12  WILLIAM   WOEDSWOKTH          [^Et.  45 

given  pleasure  upon  rational  grounds ;  and  I  have  nothing 
to  object  to  your  poetical  panegyric  but  the  occasion  which 
called  it  forth.  An  admirer  of  my  works,  zealous  as  you 
have  declared  yourself  to  be,  condescends  too  much  when 

he  gives  way  to  an  impulse  proceeding  from  the ,  or 

indeed  from  any  other  Review.  The  writers  in  these  pub- 
lications, while  they  prosecute  their  inglorious  employ- 
ment, cannot  be  supposed  to  be  in  a  state  of  mind  very 
favourable  for  being  affected  by  the  finer  influences  of  a 
thing  so  pure  as  genuine  poetry;  and  as  to  the  instance 
which  has  incited  you  to  offer  me  this  tribute  of  your 
gratitude,  though  I  have  not  seen  it,  I  doubt  not  but  that 
it  is  a  splenetic  effusion  of  the  conductor  of  that  Review, 
who  has  taken  a  perpetual  retainer  from  his  own  inca- 
pacity to  plead  against  my  claims  to  public  approbation. 
I  differ  from  you  in  thinking  that  the  only  poetical  lines 
in  your  address  are  "stolen  from  myself."  The  best  verse, 
perhaps,  is  the  following: 

"Awfully  mighty  in  his  impotence," 

which,  by  way  of  repayment,  I  may  be  tempted  to  steal 
from  you  on  some  future  occasion. 

It  pleases,  though  it  does  not  surprise  me,  to  learn  that, 
having  been  affected  early  in  life  by  my  verses,  you  have 
returned  again  to  your  old  loves  after  some  little  infideli- 
ties, which  you  were  shamed  into  by  commerce  with  the 
scribbling  and  chattering  part  of  the  world.  I  have  heard 
of  many  who  upon  their  first  acquaintance  with  my  poetry 
have  had  much  to  get  over  before  they  could  thoroughly 
relish  it;  but  never  of  one  who,  having  once  learned  to  en- 
joy it,  had  ceased  to  value  it,  or  survived  his  admiration. 
This  is  as  good  an  external  assurance  as  I  can  desire, 
that  my  inspiration  is  from  a  pure  source,  and  that  my 
principles  of  composition  are  trustworthy. 

With  many  thanks  for  your  good  wishes,  and  begging 
leave  to  offer  mine  in  return, 

I  remain, 
Dear   Sir, 

Respectfully  yours, 

WM.  WORDSWORTH. 
Bernard  Barton,  Esq.,  Woodbridge,  Suffolk. 


50]          WILLIAM   WOKDSWOETH  13 

50] 

To  ARCHDEACON  WRANGHAM 

[WRITING  LETTERS  ;  OLD  BOOKS] 

[1820?] 
Dear  Wrangham, 

You  are  very  good  in  sending  one  letter  after  another 
to  inquire  after  a  person  so  undeserving  of  attentions  of 
this  kind  as  myself.  Dr.  Johnson,  I  think,  observes,  or 
rather  is  made  to  observe  by  some  of  his  biographers,  that 
no  man  delights  to  give  what  he  is  accustomed  to  sell. 
"For  example,  you,  Mr.  Thrale,  would  rather  part  with 
anything  in  this  way  than  your  porter."  Now,  though 
I  have  never  been  much  of  a  salesman  in  matters  of  liter- 
ature (the  whole  of  my  returns — I  do  not  say  net  profits, 
but  returns — from  the  writing  trade,  not  amounting  to 
seven  score  pounds),  yet,  somehow  or  other,  I  manufac- 
ture a  letter,  and  part  with  it  as  reluctantly  as  if  it  were 
really  a  thing  of  price.  But,  to  drop  the  comparison,  I 
have  so  much  to  do  with  writing,  in  the  way  of  labour 
and  profession,  that  it  is  difficult  to  me  to  conceive  how 
anybody  can  take  up  a  pen  but  from  constraint.  My 
writing-desk  is  to  me  a  place  of  punishment;  and,  as  my 
penmanship  sufficiently  testifies,  I  always  bend  over  it 
with  some  degree  of  impatience.  All  this  is  said  that  you 
may  know  the  real  cause  of  my  silence,  and  not  ascribe 
it  in  any  degree  to  slight  or  forgetfulness  on  my  part, 
or  an  insensibility  to  your  worth  and  the  value  of  your 
friendship.  .  .  .  As  to  my  occupations,  they  look  little 
at  the  present  age;  but  I  live  in  hope  of  leaving  some- 
thing behind  me  that  by  some  minds  will  be  valued. 

I  see  no  new  books  except  by  the  merest  accident.  Of 
course  your  poem,  which  I  should  have  been  pleased  to 
read,  has  not  found  its  way  to  me.  You  inquire  about 
old  books:  you  might  almost  as  well  have  asked  for  my 
teeth  as  for  any  of  mine.  The  only  modern  books  that  I 
read  are  those  of  Travels,  or  such  as  relate  to  matters  of 
fact;  and  the  only  modern  books  that  I  care  for;  but  as 
to  old  ones,  I  am  like  yourself — scarcely  anything  comes 
amiss  to  me.  The  little  time  I  have  to  spare — the  very 
little,  I  may  say — all  goes  that  way.  If,  however,  in  the 


14  WILLIAM   WOKDSWOETH          [^Et.  59 

line  of  your  profession  you  want  any  bulky  old  Commen- 
taries on  the  Scriptures  (such  as  not  twelve  strong  men 
of  these  degenerate  days  will  venture  —  I  do  not  say  to 
read,  but  to  lift),  I  can,  perhaps,  as  a  special  favour,  ac- 
commodate you. 

I  and  mine  will  be  happy  to  see  you  and  yours  here  or 
anywhere;  but  I  am  sorry  the  time  you  talk  of  is  so  dis- 
tant: a  year  and  a  half  is  a  long  time  looking  forward, 
though  looking  back  ten  times  as  much  is  as  brief  as  a 
dream.  My  writing  is  wholly  illegible  —  at  least  I  fear  so  ; 
I  had  better,  therefore,  release  you. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Wrangham, 

Your  affectionate  friend, 
W.  WORDSWORTH. 


59] 

To  CHARLES  LAMB 
[CHARACTER  AND  PLOT] 

Jan.  10,  1830. 
My  dear  Lamb, 

A  whole  twelvemonth  have  I  been  a  letter  in  your  debt, 
for  which  fault  I  have  been  sufficiently  punished  by  self- 
reproach. 

I  liked  your  Play*  marvellously,  having  no  objection 
to  it  but  one,  which  strikes  me  as  applicable  to  a  large 
majority  of  plays,  those  of  Shakspeare  himself  not  en- 
tirely excepted  —  I  mean  a  little  degradation  of  character 
for  a  more  dramatic  turn  of  plot.  Your  present  of  Hone's 
book  was  very  acceptable;  and  so  much  so,  that  your  part 
of  the  book  is  the  cause  why  I  did  not  write  long  ago.  I 
wished  to  enter  a  little  minutely  into  notice  of  the  dra- 
matic extracts,  and,  on  account  of  the  smalmess  of  the 
print,  deferred  doing  so  till  longer  days  would  allow  me 
to  read  without  candle-light,  which  I  have  long  since 
given  up.  But,  alas!  when  the  days  lengthened,  my  eye- 
sight departed,  and  for  many  months  I  could  not  read 
three  minutes  at  a  time.  You  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that 
this  infirmity  still  hangs  about  me,  and  almost  cuts  me 
off  from  reading  altogether.  But  how  are  you,  and  how 
is  your  dear  sister?  I  long  much,  as  we  all  do,  to  know. 

*  The   Wife's  Trial. 


Mt.  60]          WILLIAM   WOKDSWORTH  15 

For  ourselves,  this  last  year,  owing  to  my  sister's  dan- 
gerous illness,  the  effects  of  which  are  not  yet  got  over, 
has  been  an  anxious  one  and  melancholy.  But  no  more 
of  this.  My  sister  has  probably  told  everything  about  the 
family;  so  that  I  may  conclude  with  less  scruple,  by  as- 
suring you  of  my  sincere  and  faithful  affection  for  you 
and  your  dear  sister.  « 

WM.  WORDSWORTH. 


60] 

To  ALEXANDER  DYCE 
["FEEBLE  AND  FASTIDIOUS  TIMES"] 

[No  date,  but  Postmark,  1830.] 

I  am  truly  obliged,  my  dear  Sir,  by  your  valuable 
present  of  Webster's  Dramatic  Works  and  the  "Speci- 
mens." Your  publisher  was  right  in  insisting  upon  the 
whole  of  Webster,  otherwise  the  book  might  have  been 
superseded,  either  by  an  entire  edition  separately  given 
to  the  world,  or  in  some  corpus  of  the  dramatic  writers. 
The  poetic  genius  of  England,  with  the  exception  of 
Chaucer,  Spenser,  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  and  a  very  few 
more,  is  to  be  sought  in  her  drama.  How  it  grieves  one 
that  there  is  so  little  probability  of  those  valuable  authors 
being  read  except  by  the  curious !  I  questioned  my  friend 
Charles  Lamb  whether  it  would  answer  for  some  person 
of  real  taste  to  undertake  abridging  the  plays  that  are 
not  likely  to  be  read  as  wholes,  and  telling  such  parts  of 
the  story  in  brief  abstract  as  were  ill  managed  in  the 
drama.  He  thought  it  would  not.*  I,  however,  am  in- 
clined to  think  it  would.  . 

You  must  indeed  have  been  fond  of  that  ponderous 
quarto,  "The  Excursion,"  to  lug  it  about  as  you  did.  In 
the  edition  of  1827  it  was  diligently  revised,  and  the 
sense  in  several  instances  got  into  less  room;  yet  still  it 
is  a  long  poem  for  these  feeble  and  fastidious  times.  You 
would  honour  me  much  by  accepting  a  copy  of  my  poeti- 
cal works;  but  I  think  it  better  to  defer  offering  it  to 

*  Lamb  had  published  his1  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets  in 
1808.  ' 


16  WILLIAM   WOEDSWOETH  &t.  72 


you  till  a  new  edition  is  called  for,  which  will  be  ere 
long,  as  I  understand  the  present  is  getting  low. 

A  word  or  two  about  Collins.  You  know  what  impor- 
tance I  attach  to  following  strictly  the  last  copy  of  the 
text  of  an  author;  and  I  do  not  blame  you  for  printing 
in  the  "Ode  to  Evening"  "brawling"  spring;  but  surely 
the  epithet  is  most  unsuitable  to  the  time,  the  very  worst, 
I  think,  that  could  have  been  chosen. 


.  72] 

To  PROFESSOR  EEED* 
[DEATH  OF  SOUTHEY] 

EYDAL  MOUNT,  March  27,  1843. 
My  dear  Mr.  Reed, —  .    .    . 

You  give  me  pleasure  by  the  interest  you  take  in  the 
various  passages  in  which  I  speak  of  the  poets,  my  con- 
temporaries, who  are  no  more:  dear  Southey,  one  of  the 
most  eminent,  is  just  added  to  the  list.  A  few  days  ago 
I  went  over  to  Keswick  to  attend  his  remains  to  their  last 
earthly  abode.  For  upwards  of  three  years  his  mental 
faculties  have  been  in  a  state  of  deplorable  decay;  and 
his  powers  of  recognition,  except  very  rarely  and  but  for 
a  moment,  have  been,  during  more  than  half  that  period, 
all  but  extinct.  His  bodily  health  was  grievously  im- 
paired, and  his  medical  attendant  says  that  he  must  have 
died  long  since  but  for  the  very  great  strength  of  his 
natural  constitution.  As  to  his  literary  remains,  they 
must  be  very  considerable,  but,  except  his  epistolary  cor- 
respondence, more  or  less  unfinished.  His  letters  cannot 
but  be  very  numerous,  and,  if  carefully  collected  and  ju- 
diciously selected,  will,  I  doubt  not,  add  greatly  to  his 
reputation.  He  had  a  fine  talent  for  that  species  of  com- 
position, and  took  much  delight  in  throwing  off  his  mind 
in  that  way.  Mr.  Taylor,  the  dramatic  author, .  is  his 
literary  executor. 

Though  I  have  written  at  great,  and  I  fear  tiresome, 
length,  I  will  add  a  few  words  upon  the  wish  you  express 
that  I  would  pay  a  tribute  to  the  English  poets  of  past 

*  Henry  Reed.  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Literature,  Uni- 
versity of  Pennsylvania. 


M\,.  72]          WILLIAM   WORDSWOKTH  17 

ages,  who  never  had  the  fame  they  are  entitled  to,  and 
have  long  been  almost  entirely  neglected.  Had  this  been 
suggested  to  me  earlier  in  life,  or  had  it  come  into  my 
thoughts,  the  thing  in  all  probability  would  have  been 
done.  At  present  I  cannot  hope  it  will;  but  it  may  afford 
you  some  satisfaction  to  be  told,  that  in  the  MS.  poem 
upon  my  poetic  education  there  is  a  whole  book,  of  about 
600  lines,  upon  my  obligations  to  writers  of  imagination, 
and  chieny  the  poets,  though  I  have  not  expressly  named 
those  to  whom  you  allude,  and  for  whom,  and  many  others 
of  their  age,  I  have  a  high  respect. 

The  character  of  the  schoolmaster,  about  whom  you  in- 
quire, had,  like  the  "Wanderer,"  in  "The  Excursion,"  a 
solid  foundation  in  fact  and  reality,  but,  like  him,  it  was 
also,  in  some  degree,  a  composition:  I  will  not,  and  need 
not,  call  it  an  invention — it  was  no  such  thing;  but  were 
I  to  enter  into  details,  I  fear  it  would  impair  the  effect 
of  the  whole  upon  your  mind ;  nor  could  I  do  it  to  my  own 
satisfaction.  I  send  you,  according  to  your  wish,  the  ad- 
ditions to  the  "Ecclesiastical  Sonnets,"  and  also  the  last 
poem  from  my  pen.  I  threw  it  off  two  or  three  weeks  ago, 
being  in  a  great  measure  impelled  to  it  by  the  desire  I  felt 
to  do  justice  to  the  memory  of  a  heroine,*  whose  conduct 
presented,  some  time  ago,  a  striking  contrast  to  the  in- 
humanity with  which  our  countrymen,  shipwrecked  lately 
upon  the  French  coast,  have  been  treated. 

Ever  most  faithfully  yours, 
WM.  WORDSWORTH. 

I>Et.  72J 

To  SIR  ROBERT  PEEL 
[THE  LAUREATESHIP] 

RYDAL  MOUNT,  AMBLESIDE,  April  4,  1843. 
Dear  Sir  Robert, 

Having  since  my  first  acquaintance  with  Horace  borne 
in  mind  the  charge  which  he  tells  us  frequently  thrilled 
his  ear, 

"Solve  senescentem  mature  sanus  eqimm,  ne 
Peccet  ad  extrenmm," 

*  Grace  Darling. 


18  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH          [^Et.  74 

I  could  not  but  be  deterred  from  incurring  responsibilities 
which  I  might  not  prove  equal  to  at  so  late  a  period  of 
life;  but  as  my  mind  has  been  entirely  set  at  ease  by  the 
very  kind  and  most  gratifying  letter  with  which  you  have 
honoured  me,  and  by  a  second  communication  from  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  to  the  same  effect,  and  in  a  like  spirit, 
I  have  accepted,  with  unqualified  pleasure,  a  distinction 
sanctioned  by  her  Majesty,  and  which  expresses,  upon 
authority  entitled  to  the  highest  respect,  a  sense  of  the 
national  importance  of  poetic  literature;  and  so  favour- 
able an  opinion  of  the  success  with  which  it  has  been  cul- 
tivated by  one  who,  after  this  additional  mark  of  your 
esteem,  cannot  refrain  from  again  assuring  you  how 
deeply  sensible  he  is  of  the  many  and  great  obligations 
he  owes  to  your  goodness,  and  who  has  the  honour  to  be, 
Dear  Sir  Robert, 
Most  faithfully, 

Your  humble  servant, 
WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

[Mt.  74] 

To  PROFESSOR  REED 

[A  BIRTHDAY   FETE] 

1844. 

...  In  your  last  letter  you  speak  so  feelingly  of  the 
manner  in  which  my  birthday  (April  7)  has  been  noticed, 
both  privately  in  your  country,  and  somewhat  publicly 
in  my  own  neighbourhood,  that  I  cannot  forbear  adding 
a  word  or  two  upon  the  subject.  It  would  have  delighted 
you  to  see  the  assemblage  in  front  of  our  house,  some 
dancing  upon  the  gravel  platform,  old  and  young,  as  de- 
scribed in  Goldsmith's  travels;  and  others,  children,  I 
mean,  chasing  each  other  upon  the  little  plot  of  lawn  to 
which  you  descend  by  steps  from  the  platform.  We  had 
music  of  our  own  preparing;  and  two  sets  of  casual  itiner- 
ants, Italians  and  Germans,  came  in  successively,  and 
enlivened  the  festivity.  There  were  present  upwards  of 
300  children,  and  about  150  adults  of  both  sexes  and  all 
ages,  the  children  in  their  best  attire,  and  of  that  happy 
and,  I  may  say,  beautiful  race,  which  is  spread  over  this 
highly-favoured  portion  of  England.  The  tables  were 


Mi.  74]          WILLIAM   WOKDSWOKTH  19 

tastefully  arranged  in  the  open  air — oranges  and  ginger- 
bread in  piles  decorated  with  evergreens  and  Spring 
flowers;  and  all  partook  of  tea,  the  young  in  the  open 
air,  and  the  old  within  doors.  I  must  own  I  wish  that 
little  commemorations  of  this  kind  were  more  common 
among  us.  It  is  melancholy  to  think  how  little  that  por- 
tion of  the  community  which  is  quite  at  ease  in  their 
circumstances  have  to  do  in  a  social  way  with  the  humbler 
classes.  They  purchase  commodities  of  them,  or  they 
employ  them  as  labourers,  or  they  visit  them  in  charity 
for  the  sake  of  supplying  their  most  urgent  wants  by 
almsgiving.  But  this,  alas,  is  far  from  enough ;  one  would 
wish  to  see  the  rich  mingle  with  the  poor  as  much  as  may 
be  upon  a  footing  of  fraternal  equality.  The  old  feudal 
dependencies  and  relations  are  almost  gone  from  Eng- 
land, and  nothing  has  yet  come  adequately  to  supply  their 
place.  There  are  tendencies  of  the  right  kind  here  and 
there,  but  they  are  rather  accidental  than  aught  that  is 
established  in  general  manners.  Why  should  not  great 
land-owners  look  for  a  substitute  for  what  is  lost  of  feudal 
paternity  in  the  higher  principles  of  christianised  hu- 
manity and  humble-minded  brotherhood  ?  And  why  should 
this  not  extend  to  those  vast  communities  which  crowd 
so  many  parts  of  England  under  one  head,  in  the  different 
sorts  of  manufacture,  which,  for  the  want  of  it,  are  too 
often  the  pests  of  the  social  state?  We  are,  however,  im- 
proving, and  I  trust  that  the  example  set  by  some  mill- 
owners  will  not  fail  to  influence  others. 

It  gave  me  pleasure  to  be  told  that  Mr.  Keble's  Dedi- 
cation of  his  "Pralectiones"  had  fallen  in  your  way,  and 
that  you  had  been  struck  by  it.  It  is  not  for  me  to  say 
how  far  I  am  entitled  to  the  honour  which  he  has  done 
me,  but  I  can  sincerely  say  that  it  has  been  the  main 
scope  of  my  writings  to  do  what  he  says  I  have  accom- 
plished. And  where  could  I  find  a  more  trustworthy 
judge? 

What  you  advise  in  respect  to  a  separate  publication 
of  my  Church  Poetry,  I  have  often  turned  in  my  own 
mind;  but  I  have  really  done  so  little  in  that  way  com- 
pared with  the  magnitude  of  the  subject,  that  I  have  not 
courage  to  venture  on  such  a  publication.  Besides,  it 
would  not,  I  fear,  pay  its  expenses.  The  Sonnets  were 


20  WILLIAM   WOKDSWOKTH          [JEt.  75 

so  published  upon  the  recommendation  of  a  deceased 
nephew  of  mine,  one  of  the  first  scholars  of  Europe,  and 
as  good  as  he  was  learned.  The  volume  did  not,  I  be- 
lieve, clear  itself,  and  a  great  part  of  the  impression, 
though  latterly  offered  at  a  reduced  price,  still  remains, 
I  believe,  in  Mr.  Moxon's  hands.  In  this  country  people 
who  do  not  grudge  laying  out  their  money  for  new  publi- 
cations on  personal  or  fugitive  interests,  that  every  one 
is  talking  about,  are  very  unwilling  to  part  with  it  for 
literature  which  is  unindebted  to  temporary  excitement. 
If  they  buy  such  at  all,  it  must  be  in  some  form  for  the 
most  part  that  has  little  to  recommend  it  but  low  price. 

And  now,  my  dear  Sir,  with  many  thanks  for  the 
trouble  you  have  been  at,  and  affectionate  wishes  for  your 
welfare, 

Believe  me  faithfully  yours, 
WM.  WORDSWORTH. 


75] 

To  PROFESSOR  HEED 
[PRESENTATION  TO  THE  QUEEN] 

EYDAL  MOUNT,  AMBLESIDE,  July  1,  1845. 
My  dear  Mr.  Reed, 

I  have,  as  usual,  been  long  in  your  debt,  which  I  am 
pretty  sure  you  will  excuse  as  heretofore.  It  gave  me 
much  pleasure  to  have  a  glimpse  of  your  brother  under 
circumstances  which  no  doubt  he  will  have  described  to 
you.  He  spoke  of  his  health  as  improved,  and  I  hope  it 
will  continue  to  do  so.  I  understood  from  him  that  it 
was  probable  that  he  should  call  at  Rydal  before  his  re- 
turn to  his  own  country.  I  need  not  say  to  you  I  shall 
be  glad,  truly  glad,  to  see  him  both  for  his  own  sake,  and 
as  so  nearly  connected  with  you.  My  absence  from  home 
lately  was  not  of  more  than  three  weeks.  I  took  the  jour- 
ney to  London  solely  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  Queen 
upon  my  appointment  to  the  Laureateship  upon  the  de- 
cease of  my  friend  Mr.  Southey.  The  weather  was  very 
cold,  and  I  caught  an  inflammation  in  one  of  my  eyes, 
which  rendered  my  stay  in  the  south  very  uncomfortable. 
I  nevertheless  did,  in  respect  to  the  object  of  my  journey, 
all  that  was  required.  The  reception  given  me  by  the 


Mt.  75]          WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH  21 

Queen  at  her  ball  was  most  gracious.  Mrs.  Everett,  the 
wife  of  your  minister,  among  many  others,  was  a  witness 
to  it,  without  knowing  who  I  was.  It  moved  her  to  the 
shedding  of  tears.  This  effect  was  in  part  produced,  I 
suppose,  by  American  habits  of  feeling,  as  pertaining  to 
a  republican  government.  To  see  a  grey-haired  man  of 
seventy-five  years  of  age,  kneeling  down  in  a  large  as- 
sembly to  kiss  the  hand  of  a  young  woman,  is  a  sight  for 
which  institutions  essentially  democratic  do  not  prepare 
a  spectator  of  either  sex,  and  must  naturally  place  the 
opinions  upon  which  a  republic  is  founded,  and  the  sen- 
timents which  support  it,  in  strong  contrast  with  a 
government  based  and  upheld  as  ours  is.  I  am  not, 
therefore,  surprised  that  Mrs.  Everett  was  moved,  as  she 
herself  described  to  persons  of  my  acquaintance,  among 
others  to  Mr.  Rogers  the  poet.  By  the  by,  of  this  gentle- 
man, now  I  believe  in  his  eighty-third  year,  I  saw  more 
than  of  any  other  person  except  my  host,  while  I  was  in 
London.  He  is  singularly  fresh  and  strong  for  his  years, 
and  his  mental  faculties  (with  the  exception  of  his  mem- 
ory a  little)  not  at  all  impaired.  It  is  remarkable  that 
he  and  the  Rev.  W.  Bowles  were  both  distinguished  as 
poets  when  I  was  a  school-boy,  and  they  have  survived 
almost  all  their  eminent  contemporaries,  several  of  whom 
came  into  notice  long  after  them.  Since  they  became 
known,  Burns,  Cowper,  Mason,  the  author  of  "Caractacus" 
and  friend  of  Gray,  have  died.  Thomas  Warton,  Laure- 
ate, then  Byron,  Shelley,  Keats,  and  a  good  deal  later 
Scott,  Coleridge,  Crabbe,  Southey,  Lamb,  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  Gary  the  translator  of  Dante,  Crowe  the  author 
of  "Lewesdon  Hill,"  and  others  of  more  or  less  distinc- 
tion, have  disappeared.  And  now  of  English  poets,  ad- 
vanced in  life,  I  cannot  recall  any  but  James  Montgomery, 
Thomas  Moore,  and  myself,  who  are  living,  except  the 
octogenarian  with  whom  I  began. 

I  saw  Tennyson,  when  I  was  in  London,  several  times. 
He  is  decidedly  the  first  of  our  living  poets,  and  I  hope 
will  live  to  give  the  world  still  better  things.  You  will 
be  pleased  to  hear  that  he  expressed  in  the  strongest  terms 
his  gratitude  to  my  writings.  To  this  I  was  far  from  in- 
different, though  persuaded  that  he  is  not  much  in  sym- 
pathy with  what  I  should  myself  most  value  in  my 


22  WILLIAM   WOKDSWOKTH          [Mi.  75 

attempts,  viz.,  the  spirituality  with  which  I  have  endeav- 
oured to  invest  the  material  universe,  and  the  moral  re- 
lations under  which  I  have  wished  to  exhibit  its  most 
ordinary  appearances.  I  ought  not  to  conclude  this  first 
portion  of  my  letter  without  telling  you  that  I  have  now 
under  my  roof  a  cousin,  who  some  time  ago  was  intro- 
duced, improperly,  I  think,  she  being  then  a  child,  to 
the  notice  of  the  public,  as  one  of  the  English  poetesses, 
in  an  article  of  the  Quarterly  so  entitled.  Her  name  is 
Emmeline  Fisher,  and  her  mother  is  my  first  cousin. 
What  advances  she  may  have  made  in  latter  years  I  do 
not  know,  but  her  productions  from  the  age  of  eight  to 
twelve  were  not  less  than  astonishing.  She  only  arrived 
yesterday,  and  we  promise  ourselves  much  pleasure  in 
seeing  more  of  her.  Our  dear  friend  Miss  Fenwick  is 
also  under  our  roof;  so  is  Katherine  Southey,  her  late 
father's  youngest  daughter,  so  that  we  reckon  ourselves 
rich;  though  our  only  daughter  is  far  from  us,  being 
gone  to  Oporto  with  her  husband  on  account  of  her  en- 
feebled frame:  and  most  unfortunately,  soon  after  her 
arrival,  she  was  seized  with  a  violent  attack  of  rheumatic 
fever  caused  by  exposure  to  the  evening  air.  We  have 
also  been  obliged  lately  to  part  with  four  grandsons,  very 
fine  boys,  who  are  gone  with  their  father  to  Italy  to  visit 
their  mother,  kept  there  by  severe  illness,  which  sent  her 
abroad  two  years  ago.  Under  these  circumstances  we  old 
people  keep  our  spirits  as  well  as  we  can,  trusting  the  end 
to  God's  goodness. 

Now,  for  the  enclosed  poem,  which  I  wrote  the  other 
day,  and  which  I  send  to  you,  hoping  it  may  give  you 
some  pleasure,  as  a  scanty  repayment  for  all  that  we  owe 
you.  Our  dear  friend,  Miss  Fenwick,  is  especially  de- 
sirous that  her  warmest  thanks  should  be  returned  to 
you  for  all  the  trouble  you  have  taken  about  her  bonds. 
But,  to  return  to  the  verses:  if  you  approve,  pray  forward 
them  with  my  compliments  and  thanks  for  his  letter  to 
.  In  his  letter  he-  states  that  with  others  he  is  strenu- 
ously exerting  himself  in  endeavours  to  abolish  slavery, 
and,  as  one  of  the  means  of  disposing  the  public  mind 
to  that  measure,  he  is  about  to  publish  selections  from 
various  authors  in  behalf  of  humanity.  He  begs  an  origi- 
nal composition  from  me.  I  have  nothing  bearing  di- 


Mt.  48]  SYDNEY    SMITH  23 

rectly  upon  slavery,  but  if  you  think  this  little  piece 
would  serve  his  cause  indirectly,  pray  be  so  kind  as  to 
forward  it  to  him.  He  speaks  of  himself  as  deeply  in- 
debted to  my  writings. 

I  have  not  left  room  to  subscribe  myself  more  than 
Affectionately  yours, 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


48]  SYDNEY   SMITH 

1771-1845 
To  HIS  SON 
[HISTORY  AND  POETRY] 

FOSTON  RECTORY,  1819. 
My  dear  Douglas, 

Concerning  this  Mr.  ,  I  would  not  have  you  put 

any  trust  in  him,  for  he  is  not  trustworthy;  but  so  live 
with  him  as  if  one  day  or  other  he  were  to  be  your  enemy. 
With  such  a  character  as  his,  this  is  a  necessary  pre- 
caution. 

In  the  time  you  can  give  to  English  reading  you  should 
consider  what  it  is  most  needful  to  have,  what  it  is  most 
shameful  to  want, — shirts  and  stockings  before  frills  and 
collars.  Such  is  the  history  of  your  own  country,  to  be 
studied  in  Hume,  then  in  Rapin's  History  of  England, 
with  Tindal's  Continuation.  Hume  takes  you  to  the  end 
of  James  the  Second,  Rapin  and  Tindal  will  carry  you 
to  the  end  of  Anne.  Then,  Coxe's  <rLife  df  Sir  Robert 
Walpole,"  and  the  "Duke  of  Marlborough" ;  and  these 
read  with  attention  to  dates  and  geography.  Then,  the 
history  of  the  other  three  or  four  enlightened  nations  in 
Europe.  For  the  English  poets,  I  will  let  you  off  at 
present  with  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  and  Shakspeare; 
and  remember,  always  in  books  keep  the  best  company. 
Don't  read  a  line  of  Ovid,  till  you  have  mastered  Virgil; 
nor  a  line  of  Thomson,  till  you  have  exhausted  Pope; 
nor  of  Massinger,  till  you  are  familiar  with  Shakspeare. 

I  am  glad  you  liked  your  box  and  its  contents.  Think 
of  us  as  we  think  of  you ;  and  send  us  the  most  acceptable 
of  all  presents, — the  information  that  you  are  improving 
in  all  particulars. 


24  SYDNEY    SMITH  [^Et.  64 


The  greatest  of  all  human  mysteries  are  the  West- 
minster holidays.  If  you  can  get  a  peep  behind  the  cur- 
tain, pray  let  us  know  immediately  the  day  of  your  com- 
ing home. 

We  have  had  about  three  or  four  ounces  of  rain  here; 
that  is  all.  I  heard  of  your  being  wet  through  in  London, 
and  envied  you  very  much.  The  whole  of  this  parish  is 
pulverised  from  long  and  excessive  drought.  Our  whole 
property  depends  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  winds:  if  it 
blow  before  it  rains,  we  shall  all  be  up  in  the  air  in  the 
shape  of  dust,  and  we  shall  be  transparished  we  know  not 
where.  God  bless  you,  my  dear  boy!  I  hope  we  shall 
soon  meet  at  Lydiard. 

Your  affectionate  father, 
SYDNEY  SMITH. 


.59] 

To  LADY  HOLLAND 
[EXCESSIVE  ANXIETY] 

May,  1831. 

...  I  met  John  Russell  at  Exeter.  The  people  along 
the  road  were  very  much  disappointed  by  his  smallness. 
I  told  them  he  was  much  larger  before  the  Bill  was  thrown 
out,  but  was  reduced  by  excessive  anxiety  about  the  peo- 
ple. This  brought  tears  into  their  eyes! 

S.  S. 


64] 

To  Miss 

[ON  TEARING  FROCKS] 

LONDON,  July  22nd,  1835. 

Lucy,  Lucy,  my  dear  child,  don't  tear  your  frock :  tear- 
ing frocks  is  not  of  itself  a  proof  of  genius;  but  write  as 
your  mother  writes.,  act  as  your  mother  acts;  be  frank, 
loyal,  affectionate,  simple,  honest;  and  then  integrity  or 
laceration  of  frock  is  of  little  import. 

And  Lucy,  dear  child,  mind  your  arithmetic.  You 
know,  in  the  first  sum  of  yours  I  ever  saw,  there  was  a 
mistake.  You  had  carried  two  (as  a  cab  is  licensed  to  do) 


Mt.  64]  SYDNEY    SMITH  25 

and  you  ought,  dear  Lucy,  to  have  carried  but  one.  Is 
this  a  trifle?  What  would  life  be  without  arithmetic,  but 
a  scene  of  horrors? 

You  are  going  to  Boulogne,  the  city  of  debts,  peopled 
by  men  who  never  understood  arithmetic;  by  the  time 
you  return,  I  shall  probably  have  received  my  first  para- 
lytic stroke,  and  shall  have  lost  all  recollection  of  you; 
therefore  I  now  give  you  my  parting  advice.  Don't  marry 
anybody  who  has  not  a  tolerable  understanding  and  a 
thousand  a  year;  and  God  bless  you,  dear  child! 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


.  64] 

To  MRS.  HOLLAND 
[A  CHANNEL-CROSSING] 

KOUEN,  Oct.  6,  1835. 
My  dearest  Child,  — 

-  fell  ill  in  London,  and  detained  us  a  day  or  two. 
At  Canterbury,  the  wheel  would  not  turn  round;  we  slept 
there,  and  lost  our  passage  the  next  day  at  Dover:  this 
was  Wednesday,  —  a  day  of  mist,  fog,  and  despair.  It 
blew  a  hurricane  all  that  night,  and  we  were  kept  awake 
by  thinking  of  the  different  fish  by  which  we  should  be 
devoured  on  the  following  day.  I  thought  I  should  fall 
to  the  lot  of  some  female  porpoise,  who,  mistaking  me 
for  a  porpoise,  but  finding  me  only  a  parson,  would  make 
a  dinner  of  me.  We  were  all  up  and  at  the  quay  by  five 
in  the  morning.  The  captain  hesitated  very  much  whether 
he  would  embark,  and  your  mother  solicited  me  in  pencil 
notes  not  to  do  so;  however,  we  embarked,  —  the  French 
Ambassador,  ourselves,  twenty  Calais  shopkeepers,  and  a 
variety  of  all  nations.  The  passage  was  tremendous: 
Hibbert  had  crossed  four  times,  and  the  courier  twenty; 
I  had  crossed  three  times  more,  and  we  none  of  us  ever 
remember  such  a  passage.  I  lay  along  the  deck,  wrapped 
in  a  cloak,  shut  my  eyes,  and,  as  to  danger,  reflected  that 
it  was  much  more  apparent  than  real;  and  that,  as  I  had 
so  little  life  to  lose,  it  was  of  little  consequence  whether 
I  was  drowned,  or  died,  like  a  resident  clergymen,  from 
indigestion.  Your  mother  was  taken  out  more  dead  than 
alive. 


26  SYDNEY    SMITH  [Mt.  64 

We  were  delighted  with  the  hotel  of  Dessein,  at  Calais; 
eggs,  butter,  bread,  coffee  —  everything  better  than  in  Eng- 
land —  the  hotel  itself  magnificent.  We  all  recovered,  and 
stayed  there  the  day;  and  proceeded  to  sleep  at  Montreuil, 
forty  miles,  where  we  were  still  more  improved  by  a  good 
dinner.  The  next  day,  twenty  miles  farther,  to  Abbeville; 
from  thence,  sixty  miles  the  next  day  to  this  place,  where 
we  found  a  superb  hotel,  and  are  quite  delighted  with 
Rouen;  the  churches  far  exceed  anything  in  England  in 
richness  of  architectural  ornament.  The  old  buildings  of 
E-ouen  are  most  interesting.  All  that  I  refuse  to  see  is, 
where  particular  things  were  done  to  particular  persons;. 
—  the  square  where  Joan  of  Arc  was  burnt,  —  the  house 
where  Comeille  was  born.  The  events  I  admit  to  be  im- 
portant; but,  from  long  experience,  I  have  found  that 
the  square  where  Joan  of  Arc  was  burnt,  and  the  room 
where  Corneille  was  born,  have  such  a  wonderful  resem- 
blance to  other  rooms  and  squares,  that  I  have  ceased  to 
interest  myself  about  them. 

To-morrow  we  start  for  Mantes,  and  the  next  day  we 
shall  be  at  Paris.  Travelling  is  extremely  slow  —  five  miles 
an  hour.  I  find  the  people  now  as  I  did  before,  most  de- 
lightful; compared  to  them  we  are  perfect  barbarians. 
Happy  the  man  whose  daughter  were  half  as  well-bred 
as  the  chambermaid  at  Dessein's,  or  whose  sons  were  as 
polished  as  the  waiter!  Whatever  else  you  do,  insist, 
when  Holland  brings  you  to  France,  on  coming  to  Rouen  ; 
there  is  nothing  in  France  more  worth  seeing.  Come  to 
Havre,  and  by  steam  to  Rouen.  God  bless  you,  dear 
child!  Give  my  love  to  Froggy  and  Doggy.  Your  af- 
fectionate father, 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


64] 

To  MRS.  HOLLAND 
[THE  MAYOR  OF  BRISTOL] 

December  11,  1835. 
My  dearest  Child,  — 

Few  are  the  adventures  of  a  canon  travelling  gently 
over  good  roads  to  his  benefice.  In  my  way  to  Reading 
I  had,  for  my  companion,  the  Mayor  of  Bristol  when  I 


65]  SYDNEY   SMITH  27 

preached  that  sermon  in  favour  of  the  Catholics.  He 
recognized  me,  and  we  did  very  well  together.  I  was 
terribly  afraid  that  he  would  stop  at  the  same  inn,  and 
that  I  should  have  the  delight  of  his  society  for  the  even- 
ing; but  he  (thank  God!)  stopped  at  the  Crown,  as  a 
loyal  man,  and  I,  as  a  rude  one,  went  on  to  the  Bear. 
Civil  waiters,  wax  candles,  and  off  again  the  next  morn- 
ing, with  my  friend  and  Sir  W.  W  —  —  ,  a  very  shrewd, 
clever,  coarse,  entertaining  man,  with  whom  I  skirmished 
a  I'aimable  all  the  way  to  Bath.  At  Bath,  candles  still 
more  waxen,  and  waiters  still  more  profound.  Being, 
since  my  travels,  very  much  Gallicised  in  my  character, 
I  ordered  a  pint  of  claret;  I  found  it  incomparably  the 
best  wine  I  ever  tasted;  it  disappeared  with  a  rapidity 
which  surprises  me  even  at  this  distance  of  time.  The 
next  morning,  in  the  coach  by  eight,  with  a  handsome 
valetudinarian  lady,  upon  whom  the  coach  produced  the 
same  effect  as  a  steam-packet  would  do.  I  proposed  weak 
warm  brandy  and  water;  she  thought,  at  first,  it  would 
produce  inflammation  of  the  stomach,  but  presently  re- 
quested to  have  it  warm  and  not  weak,  and  she  took  it 
to  the  last  drop,  as  I  did  the  claret.  All  well  here.  God 
bless  you,  dearest  child!  Love  to  Holland. 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


.  65] 

To  COLONEL  Fox 
[A  PROBLEM  IN  LATCHES] 

October,  1836. 
My  dear  Charles,  — 

If  you  have  ever  paid  any  attention  to  the  habits  of 
animals,  you  will  know  that  donkeys  are  remarkably 
cunning  in  opening  gates.  The  way  to  stop  them  is  to 
have  two  latches  instead  of  one:  a  human  being  has  two 
hands,  and  lifts  up  both  latches  at  once:  a  donkey  has 
only  one  nose,  and  latch  A  drops  as  he  quits  it  to  lift  up 
latch  B.  Bobus  and  I  had  the  grand  luck  to  see  little 
Aunty  engaged  intensely  with  this  problem.  She  was 
taking  a  walk,  and  was  arrested  by  a  gate  with  this  for- 
midable difficulty:  the  donkeys  were  looking  on  to  await 
the  issue.  Aunty  lifted  up  the  first  latch  with  the  most 


28  SYDNEY    SMITH  [Mt.  68 

perfect  success,  but  found  herself  opposed  by  a  second; 
flushed  with  victory,  she  quitted  the  first  latch  and  rushed 
at  the  second:  her  success  was  equal,  till  in  the  mean- 
time the  first  dropped.  She  tried  this  two  or  three  times, 
and,  to  her  utter  astonishment,  with  the  same  results  ;  the 
donkeys  brayed,  and  Aunty  was  walking  away  in  great 
dejection,  till  Bobus  and  I  recalled  her  with  loud  laugh- 
ter, showed  her  that  she  had  two  hands,  and  roused  her 
to  vindicate  her  superiority  over  the  donkeys.  I  mention 
this  to  you  to  request  that  you  will  make  no  allusion  to 
this  animal,  as  she  is  remarkably  touchy  on  the  subject, 
and  also  that  you  will  not  mention  it  to  Lady  Mary.  I 
wish  you  would  both  come  here  next  year.  Always  yours, 
my  dear  Charles,  very  sincerely, 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


.  68] 

To  CHARLES  DICKENS 
[AN  INVITATION  TO  DINE] 

CHARLES  STREET,  BERKELEY  SQUARE, 

June  11,  1839. 
My  dear  Sir, 

Nobody  more,  and  more  justly,  talked  of  than  yourself. 
The  Miss  Berrys,  now  at  Richmond,  live  only  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  you,  and  have  commissioned  me 
to  request  you  to  dine  with  them  Friday,  the  29th,  or 
Monday,  July  1st,  to  meet  a  canon  of  St.  Paul's,  the  rec- 
tor of  Combe  Florey,  and  the  vicar  of  Halberton,*  —  all 
equally  well  known  to  you;  to  say  nothing  of  other  and 
better  people.  The  Miss  Berrys  and  Lady  Charlotte  Lind- 
say have  not  the  smallest  objection  to  be  put  into  a 
number,f  but,  on  the  contrary,  would  be.  proud  of  the  dis- 
tinction; and  Lady  Charlotte,  in  particular,  you  may 
marry  to  Newman  Noggs.  Pray  come;  it  is  as  much  as 
my  place  is  worth  to  send  them  a  refusal. 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 

*  Sydney  Smith  was  all  three. 

t  Of  Nicholas  Nickleby,  then  publishing. 


.  71]  SYDNEY   SMITH  29 

.  71] 


To  JOHN  MURRAY 
[MORIBUNDITY  AND  CADUCITY] 

COMBE  FLOREY,  Sept.  12,  1842. 
My  dear  Murray, 

How  did  the  Queen  receive  you?  What  was  the  gen- 
eral effect  of  her  visit  ?  Was  it  well  managed  ?  Does  she 
show  any  turn  for  metaphysics?  Have  you  had  much 
company  in  the  Highlands? 

Mrs.  Sydney  and  I  are  both  in  fair  health,  —  such  health 
as  is  conceded  to  moribundity  and  caducity. 

Homer  applied  to  me,  and  I  sent  him  a  long  letter  upon 
the  subject  of  his  brother,  which  he  likes,  and  means  to 
publish  in  his  Memoirs.  He  seeks  the  same  contribution 
from  Jeffrey.  Pray  say  to  Jeffrey  that  he  ought  to  send 
it.  It  is  a  great  pity  that  the  subject  has  been  so  long 
deferred.  The  mischief  has  all  proceeded  from  the  delays 
of  poor  Whishaw,  who  cared  too  much  about  reputation, 
to  do  anything  in  a  period  compatible  with  the  shortness 
of  human  life.  If  you  have  seen  Jeffrey,  tell  me  how  he 
is,  and  if  you  think  he  will  stand  his  work. 

We  have  the  railroad  now  within  five  miles.  Bath  in 
two  hours,  London  in  six,  —  in  short,  everywhere  in  no 
time!  Every  fresh  accident  on  the  railroads  is  an  ad- 
vantage, and  leads  to  an  improvement.  What  we  want 
is,  an  overturn  which  would  kill  a  bishop,  or,  at  least,  a 
dean.  This  mode  of  conveyance  would  then  become  per- 
fect. We  have  had  but  little  company  here  this  summer. 
Luttrell  comes  next  week.  I  have  given  notice  to  the 
fishmongers,  and  poulterers,  and  fruit  women!  Ever, 
dear  Murray,  your  sincere  friend, 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


30  SYDNEY   SMITH  [^Et.  71 

[Mt.  71] 

To  LADY  HOLLAND 
[JOHN  ALLEN'S  LEGS] 

COMBE  FLOREY,  Sept.  13,  1842. 
My  dear  Lady  Holland, 

I  am  sorry  to  hear  Allen*  is  not  well;  but  the  reduc- 
tion of  his  legs  is  a  pure  and  unmixed  good;  they  are 
enormous, — they  are  clerical!  He  has  the  creed  of  a 
philosopher  and  the  legs  of  a  clergyman ;  I  never  saw  such 
legs, — at  least,  belonging  to  a  layman. 

Read  "A  Life  in  the  Forest,"  f  skipping  nimbly ;  but 
there  is  much  of  good  in  it. 

It  is  a  bore,  I  admit,  to  be  past  seventy,  for  you  are 
left  for  execution,  and  are  daily  expecting  the  death- 
warrant;  but,  as  you  say,  it  is  not  anything  very  capital 
we  quit.  We  are,  at  the  close  of  life,  only  hurried  away 
from  stomach-aches,  pains  in  the  joints,  from  sleepless 
nights  and  unamusing  days,  from  weakness,  ugliness,  and 
nervous  tremors;  but  we  shall  all  meet  again  in  another 
planet,  cured  of  all  our  defects, will  be  less  irritable; 

—  more  silent ; will  assent ; Jeffrey  will  speak 

lower;  Bobus  will  be  just  as  he  is;  I  shall  be  more  re- 
spectful to  the  upper  clergy;  but  I  shall  have  as  lively  a 
sense  as  I  now  have  of  all  your  kindness  and  affection 
for  me. 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 

[^Et.  71] 

To  MRS. 

[A    BEAUTIFUL    MONUMENT] 

COMBE  FLOREY,  Oct.  13,  1842. 

My  dear  Mrs.  , 

You  lie  heavy  upon  my  conscience,  unaccustomed  to 
bear  any  weight  at  all.  What  can  a  country  parson  say 
to  a  travelled  and  travelling  lady,  who  neither  knows  nor 
cares  anything  for  wheat,  oats,  and  barley?  It  is  this 

*  Physician  and  librarian  at  Holland  House. 
t  By  S.  M.  Cooper.     Philadelphia,  1854. 


71]  SYDNEY   SMITH  31 

reflection  which  keeps  me  silent.  Still  she  has  a  fine 
heart,  and  likes  to  be  cared  for,  even  by  me. 

Mrs.  Sydney  and  I  are  in  tolerable  health, — both  better 
than  we  were  when  you  lived  in  England;  but  there  is 
much  more  of  us,  so  that  you  will  find  you  were  only  half 
acquainted  with  us!  I  wish  I  could  add  that  the  intel- 
lectual faculties  had  expanded  in  proportion  to  the  aug- 
mentation of  flesh  and  blood. 

Have  you  any  chance  of  coming  home?  or  rather,  I 
should  say,  have  we  any  chance  of  seeing  you  at  home? 
I  have  been  living  for  three  months  quite  alone  here.  I 
am  nearly  seventy-two,  and  I  confess  myself  afraid  of 
the  very  disagreeable  methods  by  which  we  leave  this 
world;  the  long  death  of  palsy,  or  the  degraded  spectacle 
of  aged  idiotism.  As  for  the  pleasures  of  the  world, — it 
is  a  very  ordinary,  middling  sort  of  place.  Pray  be  my 
tombstone,  and  say  a  good  word  for  me  when  I  am  dead  1 
I  shall  think  of  my  beautiful  monument  when  I  am  go- 
ing; but  I  wish  I  could  see  it  before  I  die.  God  bless  you  I 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 

[Mt.  71] 

To  LADY  HOLLAND 
[A  MARTINET] 

November  6th,  1842. 
My  dear  Lady  Holland, 

I  have  not  the  heart,  when  an  amiable  lady  says,  "Come 
to  'Semiramis'  in  my  box,"  to  decline;  but  I  got  bolder 
at  a  distance.  "Semiramis"  would  be  to  me  pure  misery. 
I  love  music  very  little, — I  hate  acting;  I  have  the  worst 
opinion  of  Semiramis  herself,  and  the  whole  thing  (I  can- 
not help  it)  seems  so  childish  and  so  foolish  that  I  cannot 
abide  it.  Moreover,  it  would  be  rather  out  of  etiquette 
for  a  canon  of  St.  Paul's  to  go  to  an  opera;  and  where 
etiquette  prevents  me  from  doing  things  disagreeable  to 
myself,  I  am  a  perfect  martinet. 

All  these  things  considered,  I  am  sure  you  will  not  be 
a  Semiramis  to  me,  but  let  me  off. 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


32  SYDNEY   SMITH  [Mt.  72 

71] 

To  Miss  BERRY 
[TITTENHANGER] 

November,  1842. 
Where  is  Tittenhanger? 
Is  it  near  Bangor? 
Is  it  in  Scotland, 
Or  a  more  flat  land? 
Is  it  in  Wales, 
Of  near  Versailles? 
Tell  me,  in  the  name  of  grace, 
Why  you  go  to  such  a  place? 
I  do  not  know  in  what  map  to  look, 
And  I  can't  find  it  in  the  Road-book. 
I  always  feel  so  sad  and  undone, 
When  you  and  Agnes  go  from  London. 
Your  loving  friend  and  plump  divine 
Accepts  your  kind  commands  to  dine. 
I  will  be  certain  to  remember 
The  fifteenth  day  of  this  November. 
There  is  a  young  prince 
Two  days  since — 
But  for  fear  I  should  be  a  bore, 
I  won't  write  you  any  more; 
Indeed,  I've  nothing  else  to  tell, 
But  that  Monckton  Milnes  is  well. 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 

.  72] 

To  MRS.  GROTE 
[THE  HAPPY  SURGEONS] 

COMBE  FLOREY,  July  17,  1843. 

I  have  been  sadly  tormented  with  the  gout  in  my  knee. 
I  had  made  great  progress;  but  at  the  Archbishop's  I 
walked  too  much,  and  the  gout  came  back. 

My  place  looks  very  beautiful,  and  I  really  enjoy  the 
change.  We  were  very  sorry  not  to  see  you  the  evening 
you  were  to  come  to  us;  but  the  temptation  not  to  come, 
where  you  have  engaged  to  come,  is  more  than  you  can 


Ml.  72]  SYDNEY    SMITH  33 

resist:  try  refusing,  and  see  what  that  will  do!  Mr. 
Grote  was  very  agreeable  and  sensible,  as  he  always  is. 
I  met  Brunei  at  the  Archbishop's,  and  found  him  a  very 
lively  and  intelligent  man.  He  said  that  when  he  coughed 
up  the  piece  of  gold,  the  two  surgeons,  the  apothecary, 
and  physicians  all  joined  hands,  and  danced  around  the 
room  for  ten  minutes,  without  taking  the  least  notice  of 
his  convulsed  and  half-strangled  state.  I  admire  this 
very  much.  Your  sincere  friend, 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 

[Ml.  72] 

To  LORD  MURRAY 
[A  MASS  OF  NOURISHMENT] 

COMBE  FLOREY,  Sept.  29,  1843. 
My  dear  Murray f 

Jeffrey  has  written  to  me  to  say  he  means  to  dedicate 
his  Essays  to  me.  This  I  think  a  very  great  honour,  and 
it  pleases  me  very  much.  I  am  sure  he  ought  to  resign. 
He  has  very  feeble  health;  a  mild  climate  would  suit  the 
state  of  his  throat.  Mrs.  Jeffrey  thinks  he  could  not  em- 
ploy himself.  Wives  know  a  great  deal  about  husbands; 
but,  if  she  is  right,  I  should  be  surprised.  I  have  thought 
he  had  a  canine  appetite  for  books,  though  this  sometimes 
declines  in  the  decline  of  life.  I  am  beautifying  my 
house  in  Green  Street;  a  comfortable  house  is  a  great 
source  of  happiness.  It  ranks  immediately  after  health 
and  a  good  conscience.  I  see  your  religious  war  is  be- 
gun in  Scotland.  I  suppose  Jeffrey  will  be  at  the  head 
of  the  Free  Church  troops.  Do  you  think  he  has  any 
military  talents? 

You  are,  I  hear,  attending  more  to  diet  than  hereto- 
fore. If  you  wish  for  anything  like  happiness  in  the 
fifth  act  of  life,  eat  and  drink  about  one-half  what  you 
could  eat  and  drink.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  my  calculation 
about  eating  and  drinking?  Having  ascertained  the 
weight  of  what  I  could  live  upon,  so  as  to  preserve  health 
and  strength,  and  what  I  did  live  upon,  I  found  that,  be- 
tween ten  and  seventy  years  of  age,  I  had  eaten  and  drunk 
forty  four-horse  waggon-loads  of  meat  and  drink  more 
than  would  have  preserved  me  in  life  and  health!  The 


34  SYDNEY   SMITH  [^Et.  72 

value  of  this  mass  of  nourishment  I  considered  to  be  worth 
seven  thousand  pounds  sterling.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
I  must,  by  my  voracity,  have  starved  to  death  fully  a 
hundred  persons.  This  is  a  frightful  calculation,  but  ir- 
resistibly true;  and  I  think,  dear  Murray,  your  waggons 
would  require  an  additional  horse  each  ! 

Lord  and  Lady  Lansdowne,  who  are  rambling  about 
this  fine  country,  are  to  spend  a  day  here  next  week.  You 
must  really  come  to  see  the  West  of  England.  From 
Combe  Florey  we  will  go  together  to  Linton  and  Lyn- 
mouth,  than  which  there  is  nothing  finer  in  this  island. 
Two  of  our  acquaintance  dead  this  week,  —  Stewart 
Mackenzie  and  Bell!  We  must  close  our  ranks.  God 
bless  you,  my  dear  Murray! 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


72] 

To  MRS.  MEYNELL 
[ARCADIAN  OLD  GENTLEMEN] 

COMBE  FLOREY,  1843. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Meynell, 

Let  me,  if  you  please,  have  a  word  or  two  from  you,  to 
tell  me  of  your  new  habitation.  Saba  seems  to  have  been 
delighted  with  her  visit.  I  see  -  has  been  with  you. 
How  did  you  like  her?  To  me  she  is  agreeable,  civil, 
and  elegant,  and  by  no  means  insipid.  She  has  a  kind 
of  ready-money  smile,  and  a  three-per-cent.  affability, 
which  make  her  interesting. 

We  have  been  leading  a  very  solitary  life  here.  Hardly 
a  soul  has  been  here,  but  I  am  contented,  as  I  value  more 
every  day  the  pleasures  of  indolence;  and  there  is  this 
difference  between  a  large  inn  like  Temple  Newsam  and 
a  small  public-house  like  Combe  Florey,  that  you  hold 
a  numerous  society,  who  make  themselves  to  a  certain 
degree  independent  of  you,  and  do  not  weigh  upon  you; 
whereas,  as  I  hold  only  two  or  three,  the  social  weight  is 
upon  me.  Luttrell  is  staying  here.  Nothing  can  exceed 
the  innocence  of  our  conversation.  It  is  one  continued 
eulogy  upon  man-and-woman-kind.  You  would  suppose 
that  two  Arcadian  old  gentlemen,  after  shearing  their 
flocks,  had  agreed  to  spend  a  week  together  upon  curds 


Mi.  41]  SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  35 

and  cream,  and  to  indulge  in  gentleness  of  speach  and  soft- 
ness of  mind. 

We  have  had  a  superb  summer,  but  I  am  glad  it  is  over ; 
I  am  never  happy  till  the  fires  are  lighted.  Where  is  your 
house  in  London?  You  cannot  but  buy  one:  it  is  abso- 
lutely impossible  for  Temple  Newsam  not  to  have  a  Lon- 
don establishment.  God  bless  you,  dear  G.  1  Keep  a  little 
love  for  your  old  friend, 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


To  His  GRANDCHILD  [Undated] 

[ON   SENDING   HIM   A   LETTER   OVERWEIGHT] 

Oh,  you  little  wretch!  Your  letter  cost  me  fourpence. 
I  will  pull  all  the  plums  out  of  your  puddings;  I  will 
undress  your  dolls  and  steal  their  under-petticoats ;  you 
shall  have  no  currant-jelly  to  your  rice;  I  will  kiss  you 
till  you  cannot  see  out  of  your  eyes;  when  nobody  else 
whips  you,  I  will  do  so;  I  will  fill  you  so  full  of  sugar- 
plums that  they  shall  run  out  of  your  nose  and  ears; 
lastly,  your  frocks  shall  be  so  short  that  they  shall  not 
come  below  your  knees.  Your  loving  grandfather, 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


[^Et.41]  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

1771-1832 

To  HENRY  BREVOORT 
[THE  KNICKERBOCKER  HISTORY] 

ABBOTSFORD,  23d  April,  1813. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  beg  you  to  accept  my  best  thanks  for  the  uncommon 
degree  of  entertainment  which  I  have  received  from  the 
most  excellently  jocose  history  of  New  York.  I  am  senii- 
ble,  that  as  a  stranger  to  American  parties  and  politics, 
I  must  lose  much  of  the  concealed  satire  of  the  piece,  but 
I  must  own  that  looking  at  the  simple  and  obvious  mean- 
ing only,  I  have  never  read  anything  so  closely  resembling 
the  style  of  Dean  Swift,  as  the  annals  of  Diedrich  Knick- 
erbocker. I  have  been  employed  these  few  evenings  in 
reading  them  aloud  to  Mrs.  S.  and  two  ladies  who  are  our 


36  SIR   WALTER    SCOTT  [^Et.  49 

guests,  and  our  sides  have  been  absolutely  sore  with 
laughing.  I  think,  too,  there  are  passages  which  indicate 
that  the  author  possesses  powers  of  a  different  kind,  and 
has  some  touches  which  remind  me  much  of  Sterne.  I 
beg  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  let  me  know  when  Mr. 
Irvine  *  takes  pen  in  hand  again,  for  assuredly  I  shall 
expect  a  very  great  treat  which  I  may  chance  never  to 
hear  of  but  through  your  kindness. 

Believe  me,  Dear  Sir, 
Your  obliged  humble  servant, 

WALTER  SCOTT. 


To  MRS.  HUGHES 
[THE  WAVERLEY  NOVELS] 

WATERLOO  HOTEL,  Tuesday, 

March  7,  1821. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Hughes, — 

I  have  been  so  completely  harassed  by  business  and  en- 
gagements since  I  came  to  this  wilderness  of  houses,  that 
I  must  have  seemed  very  ungrateful  in  leaving  your  kind 
remembrances  unacknowledged.  You  mistake  when  you 
give  me  any  credit  for  being  concerned  with  these  far- 
famed  novels,  but  I  am  not  the  less  amused  with  the 
hasty  dexterity  of  the  good  folks  of  Cumnor  and  its  vicin- 
ity getting  all  their  traditionary  lore  into  such  order  as 
to  meet  the  taste  of  the  public.  I  could  have  wished  the 
author  had  chosen  a  more  heroical  death  for  his  fair 
victim.f 

It  is  some  time  since  I  received  and  acknowledged  your 
young  student's  very  spirited  verses.  I  am  truly  glad 
that  Oxford  breeds  such  nightingales,  and  that  you  have 
an  interest  in  them.  I  sent  my  letter  to  my  friend  Long- 
man, and,  as  it  did  not  reach  you,  can  only  repeat  my 
kindest  and  best  thanks.  I  would  be  most  happy  to  know 
your  son,  and  hope  you  will  contrive  to  afford  me  that 
pleasure. 

With  best  compliments  to  Dr.  Hughes,  and  sincere  re- 

*  Irving.  fAmy  Robsart,  in  Kenilworth. 


51]  SIR   WALTER    SCOTT  37 

gret  that  I  have  so  often  found  Amen  Corner  untenanted, 
I  am,  with  sincerity, 

Dear  Mrs.  Hughes, 
Your  much  obliged  humble  servant, 
WALTER  SCOTT. 

I>Et.  51] 

To  THOMAS  EROGNALL  DIBDIN 
[THE  UNKNOWN  AUTHOR] 

EDIN.,  Feb.  25,  1823. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  was  duly  favoured  with  your  letter,  which  proves  one 
point  against  the  unknown  Author  of  Waverley;  namely 
that  he  is  certainly  a  Scotsman,  since  no  other  nation 
pretends  to  the  advantage  of  second  sight.  Be  he  who 
or  where  he  may,  he  must  certainly  feel  the  very  high 
honour  which  has  selected  him,  nominis  umbra,  to  a  situ- 
ation so  worthy  of  envy. 

As  his  personal  appearance  in  the  fraternity  is  not  like 
to  be  a  speedy  event,  one  may  presume  he  may  be  desirous 
of  offering  some  token  of  his  gratitude  in  the  shape  of  a 
reprint,  or  such-like  kickshaw,  and  for  this  purpose  you 
had  better  send  me  the  statutes  of  your  learned  body,  which 
I  will  engage  to  send  him  in  safety. 

It  will  follow  as  a  characteristic  circumstance,  that  the 
table  of  the  Roxburghe,  like  that  of  King  Arthur,  will 
have  a  vacant  chair,  like  that  of  Banquo  at  Macbeth's 
banquet.  But  if  this  author,  who  "hath  fernseed  and 
walketh  invisible,"  should  not  appear  to  claim  it  before 
I  come  to  London  (should  I  ever  be  there  again),  with 
permission  of  the  Club,  I,  who  have  something  of  adven- 
ture in  me,  although  a  knight  like  Sir  Andrew  Ague- 
cheek,  "dubb'd  with  unbacked  rapier,  and  on  carpet  con- 
sideration," would,  rather  than  lose  the  chance  of  a  dinner 
with  the  Roxburghe  Club,  take  upon  me  the  adventure 
of  the  siege  perilous^  and  reap  some  amends  for  perils 
and  scandals  into  which  the  invisible  champion  has  drawn 
me,  by  being  his  locum  tenens  on  so  distinguished  an 
occasion. 

It  will  not  be  uninteresting  to  you  to  know,  that  a  fra- 
ternity is  about  to  be  ^established  here  something  on  the 


38  SIR   WALTER    SCOTT  [^Et.  54 

plan  of  the  Roxburghe  Club;  but,  having  Scottish  antiq- 
uities chiefly  in  view,  it  is  to  be  called  the  Bannatyne 
Club,  from  the  celebrated  antiquary,  George  Bannatyne, 
who  compiled  by  far  the  greatest  record  of  old  Scottish 
poetry.  The  first  meeting  is  to  be  held  on  Thursday, 
when  the  health  of  the  Roxburghe  Club  will  be  drunk. — I 
am  always,  my  dear  sir,  your  most  faithful  humble  servant, 

WALTER  SCOTT. 

[Mt.  54] 

To  DR.  AND  MRS.  HUGHES 
[THE  FINANCIAL  DISASTER] 

EDINBURGH,  6  February,  1826. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Hughes  and  my  worthy  Doctor, — 

I  write  immediately  to  give  you  the  information  which 
your  kindness  thinks  of  importance.  I  shall  certainly  lose 
a  very  large  sum  by  the  failure  of  my  booksellers,  whom 
all  men  considered  as  worth  £150,000  &  who  I  fear  will 
not  cut  up,  as  they  say,  for  one  fourth  of  the  money. 
But  looking  at  the  thing  at  the  worst  point  of  view,  I 
cannot  see  that  I  am  entitled  to  claim  the  commiseration 
of  any  one,  since  I  have  made  an  arrangement  for  settling 
these  affairs  to  the  satisfaction  of  every  party  concerned 
so  far  as  yet  appears,  which  leaves  an  income  with  me 
ample  for  all  the  comforts  and  many  of  the  elegancies  of 
life,  and  does  not  in  the  slightest  degree  innovate  on  any 
of  my  comforts.  So  what  title  have  I  to  complain?  I 
am  far  richer  in  point  of  income  than  Generals  and  Ad- 
mirals who  have  led  fleets  and  armies  to  battle.  My  family 
are  all  provided  for  in  present  or  in  prospect,  my  estate 
remains  in  my  family,  my  house  and  books  in  my  own 
possession.  I  shall  give  up  my  house  in  Edinb.  and  retire 
to  Abbotsford;  where  my  wife  and  Anne  will  make  their 
chief  residence;  during  the  time  our  courts  sit,  when  I 
must  attend,  I  will  live  at  my  club.  If  Anne  wishes  to 
see  a  little  of  the  world  in  the  gay  season,  they  can  .have 
lodgings  for  two  or  three  weeks;  this  plan  we  had  indeed 
form'd  before  it  became  imperative. 

At  Abbotsford  we  will  cut  off  all  hospitality,  which 
latterly  consumed  all  my  time,  which  was  worse  than  the 
expense;  this  I  intended  to  do  at  £ny  rate;  we  part  with 


Mt.  58]  SIR   WALTER    SCOTT  39 

an  extra  servant  or  two,  manage  our  household  economi- 
cally, and  in  five  years,  were  the  public  to  stand  my 
friend,  I  should  receive  much  more  than  I  have  lost. 
But  if  I  only  pay  all  demands  I  shall  be  satisfied. 

I  shall  be  anxious  to  dispose  of  Mr.  Charles  so  soon  as 
his  second  year  of  Oxford  is  ended.  I  think  of  trying 
to  get  him  into  some  diplomatic  line,  for  which  his  habits 
and  manners  seem  to  suit  him  well. 

I  might  certainly  have  borrowed  large  sums.  But  to 
what  good  purpose  ?  I  must  have  owed  that  money,  and  a 
sense  of  obligation  besides.  Now,  as  I  stand,  the  Banks 
are  extremely  sensible  that  I  have  been  the  means  of  great 
advantages  to  their  establishments,  and  have  afforded  me 
all  the  facilities  I  can  desire  to  make  my  payments;  and 
as  they  gained  by  my  prosperity,  they  are  handsomely 
disposed  to  be  indulgent  to  my  adversity,  and  what  can 
an  honest  man  wish  for  more? 

Many  people  will  think  that  because  I  see  company 
easily  my  pleasures  depend  on  society.  But  this  is  not 
the  case;  I  am  by  nature  a  very  lonely  animal,  and  enjoy 
myself  much  at  getting  rid  from  a  variety  of  things 
connected  with  public  business,  etc.,  which  I  did  because 
they  were  fixed  on  me,  but  I  am  particularly  happy  to  be 
rid  of.  And  now  let  the  matter  be  at  rest  for  ever.  It 
is  a  bad  business,  but  might  have  been  much  worse. 
I  am,  my  dear  friends, 

Most  truly  yours, 

WALTER  SCOTT. 


To  MRS.  HUGHES 
[TOM  PURDIE] 

[1829?] 
My  dear  Mrs.  Hughes,  — 

Were  you  ever  engaged  in  a  fair  bout  of  setting  to 
rights?  but  I  need  not  ask;  I  know  how  little  you  would 
mind  what  annoys  my  ponderous  person  so  much,  and  in 
my  mind's  eye  I  see  you  riding  on  the  whirlwind  and 
directing  the  storm  like  the  fairy  Whippity  Stourie  her- 
self. Dr.  Hughes  will  comprehend  the  excess  of  my  an- 
noyance in  the  task  of  turning  all  my  books  over  each 
other  to  give  a  half  yearly  review  of  the  lost,  stolen,  and 


40  SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE    [Mt.  23 

strayed,  which  disturbs  my  temper  as  much  as  the  gallery 
stairs  do  my  person.  .  .  . 

I  have  had  a  very  severe  loss  in  my  old  &  faithful 
Gillian  a  Chriah,  that  is,  Man  of  the  belt,  Thomas  Purdie, 
and  though  I  am  on  most  occasions  like  Edward  Bruce 
"who  used  not  to  make  moan  for  others,  &  loved  not  that 
others  should  lament  for  him,"  yet  on  this  occasion  I 
have  felt  very  acute  sorrow.  I  was  so  much  accustomed 
to  the  poor  fellow  that  I  feel  as  if  I  had  lost  feet  &  hands, 
so  ready  was  he  always  to  supply  the  want  of  either. 
Do  I  wish  a  tree  to  be  cut  down,  I  miss  Tom  with  the 
Axe. — Do  I  meet  a  bad  step,  and  there  are  such  things 
in  my  walks  as  you  well  know,  Tom's  powerful  arm  is  no 
more  at  my  command.  Besides  all  this,  there  is  another 
grievance.  I  am  naturally  rather  shy;  you  laugh  when  I 
say  this,  but  it  is  very  true;  I  am  naturally  shy,  though 
bronzed  over  by  the  practice  of  the  law  and  a  good  deal 
of  commerce  with  the  world.  But  it  is  inexpressibly  dis- 
agreeable to  me  to  have  all  the  gradations  of  familiarity 
to  go  through,  with  another  familiar,  till  we  are  suffi- 
ciently intimate  to  be  at  ease  with  him.  .  .  . 


[.Et.23]  SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 

1772-1834 

To  THOMAS  POOLE 

[COLERIDGE  AS  TRAVELLER] 

May  29,  1796. 
My  dear  Poole, — 

This  said  caravan  does  not  leave  Bridgewater  till  nine. 
In  the  market  place  stands  the  hustings.  I  mounted  it, 
and,  pacing  the  boards,  mused  on  bribery,  false  swearing, 
and  other  foibles  of  election  times.  I  have  wandered,  too, 
by  the  river  Parret,  which  looks  as  filthy  as  if  all  the 
parrots  of  the  House  of  Commons  had  been  washing  their 
consciences  therein.  Dear  gutter  of  Stowey!  Were  I 
transported  to  Italian  plains,  and  lay  by  the  side  of  the 
streamlet  that  murmured  through  an  orange  grove,  I  would 
think  of  thee,  dear  gutter  of  Stowey,  and  wish  that  I 
were  poring  on  thee! 

So  much  by  way  of  rant.     I  have  eaten  three  eggs, 


^t.  24]    SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE  41 

swallowed  sundries  of  tea  and  bread  and  butter,  purely 
for  the  purpose  of  amusing  myself !  I  have  seen  the  horse 
fed.  When  at  Cross,  where  I  shall  dine,  I  shall  think  of 
your  happy  dinner,  celebrated  under  the  auspices  of  hum- 
ble independence,  supported  by  brotherly  love!  I  am 
writing,  you  understand,  for  no  worldly  purpose  but  that 
af  avoiding  anxious  thoughts.  Apropos  of  honey-pie, 
Caligula  or  Elagabalus  (I  forget  which)'  had  a  dish  of 
nightingales'  tongues  served  up.  What  think  you  of  the 
stings  of  bees?  God  bless  you!  My  filial  love  to  your 
mother,  and  fraternity  to  your  sister.  Tell  Ellen  Cruik- 
shank  that  in  my  next  parcel  to  you  I  will  send  my 
Haleswood  poem  to  her.  Heaven  protect  her  and  you 
and  Sara  and  your  mother  and,  like  a  bad  shilling  passed 
Dff  between  a  handful  of  guineas, 

Your  affectionate  friend  and  brother, 
S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

P.S. — Don't  forget  to  send  by  Milton*  my  old  clothes, 
and  linen  thai  once  was  clean,  et  cetera.  A  pretty  peri" 
phrasis  that! 

[.Et.  24] 

To  JOHN  THELWALL 
[COLERIDGE  DESCRIBES  HIMSELF] 

Saturday,  November  19,  [1796]. 

OXFORD  STREET,  BRISTOL. 

.  .  .  Your  portrait  of  yourself  interested  me.  As  to 
me,  my  face,  unless  when  animated  by  immediate  elo- 
quence, expresses  great  sloth,  and  great,  indeed,  almost 
idiotic  good-nature.  'Tis  a  mere  carcass  of  a  face;  fat, 
flabby,  and  expressive  chiefly  of  inexpression.  Yet  I  am 
told  that  my  eyes,  eyebrows,  and  forehead  are  physiog- 
Qomically  good ;  but  of  this  the  deponent  knoweth  not.  As 
to  my  shape,  'tis  a  good  shape  enough  if  measured,  but 
my  gait  is  awkward,  and  the  walk  of  the  whole  man 
indicates  indolence  capable  of  energies.  I  am,  and  ever 
have  been,  a  great  reader,  and  have  read  almost  everything 
— a  library  cormorant.  I  am  deep  in  all  out  of  the  way 

•The  carrier. 


42  SAMUEL    TAYLOR   COLERIDGE    [J2t.  24 

books,  whether  of  the  monkish  times,  or  of  the  puritanical 
era.  I  have  read  and  digested  most  of  the  historical 
writers ;  but  I  do  not  like  history.  Metaphysics  and  poetry 
and  "facts  of  mind,"  that  is,  accounts  of  all  the  strange 
phantasms  that  ever  possessed  "your  philosophy";  dream- 
ers, from  Thoth  the  Egyptian  to  Taylor  the  English  pagan, 
are  my  darling  studies.  In  short,  I  seldom  read  except  to 
amuse  myself,  and  I  am  almost  always  reading.  Of  useful 
knowledge,  I  am  a  so-so  chemist,  and  I  love  chemistry. 
All  else  is  ~blank;  but  I  will  be  (please  God)  an  horticul- 
turalist  and  a  farmer.  I  compose  very  little,  and  I  abso- 
lutely hate  composition,  and  such  is  my  dislike  that  even 
a  sense  of  duty  is  sometimes  too  weak  to  overpower  it. 

I  cannot  breathe  through  my  nose,  so  my  mouth,  with 
sensual  thick  lips,  is  almost  always  open.  In  conversation 
I  am  impassioned,  and  oppose  what  I  deem  error  with  an 
eagerness  which  is  often  mistaken  for  personal  asperity; 
but  I  am  ever  so  swallowed  up  in  the  thing  that  I  per- 
fectly forget  my  opponent.  Such  am  I.  I  am  just  going 
to  read  Dupuis'  twelve  octavos,  which  I  have  got  from 
London.  I  shall  read  only  one  octavo  a  week,  for  I  can- 
not speak  French  at  all  and  I  read  it  slowly. 

My  wife  is  well  and  desires  to  be  remembered  to  you 
and  your  Stella  and  little  ones.  N.B. — Stella  (among  the 
Romans)  was  a  man's  name.  All  the  classics  are  against 
youj  but  our  Swift,  I  suppose,  is  authority  for  this  un-. 
sexing. 

Write  on  the  receipt  of  this,  and  believe  me  as  ever, 
with  affectionate  esteem, 

Your  sincere  friend, 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 
[At.  24] 

To  THOMAS  POOLE 
[REMOVING  TO  NETHER  STOWEY] 

Sunday  morning,  [  ?  December  18,  1796.] 
My  dear  Poole, — 

I  wrote  to  you  with  improper  impetuosity;  but  I  had 
been  dwelling  so  long  on  the  circumstance  of  living  near 
you,  that  my  mind  was  thrown  by  your  letter  into  the 
feelings  of  those  distressful  dreams  where  we  imagine 
ourselves  falling  from  precipices.  I  seemed  falling  from 


Mt.  24]    SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE  43 

the  summit  of  my  fondest  desires,  whirled  from  the  height 
just  as  I  had  reached  it. 

We  shall  want  none  of  the  Woman's  furniture ;  we  have 
enough  for  ourselves.  What  with  boxes  of  books,  and 
chests  of  drawers,  and  kitchen  furniture,  and  chairs,  and 
our  bed  and  bed-linen,  etc.,  we  shall  have  enough  to  fill 
a  small  waggon,  and  to-day  I  shall  make  enquiry  among 
my  trading  acquaintance,  whether  it  would  be  cheaper  to 
hire  a  waggon  to  take  them  straight  to  Stowey,  than  to 
put  them  in  the  Bridgwater  waggon.  Taking  in  the 
double  trouble  and  expense  of  putting  them  in  the  drays 
to  carry  them  to  the  public  waggon,  and  then  seeing  them 
packed  again,  and  again  to  be  unpacked  and  packed  at 
Bridgwater,  I  much  question  whether  our  goods  would 
be  good  for  anything.  I  am  very  poorly,  not  to  say  ill. 
My  face  monstrously  swollen — my  recondite  eye  sits  dis- 
tent quaintly,  behind  the  flesh-hill  and  looks  as  little  as 
a  tomtit's.  And  I  have  a  sore  throat  that  prevents  my 
eating  aught  but  spoon-meat  without  great  pain.  And  I 
have  a  rheumatic  complaint  in  the  back  part  of  my  head 
and  shoulders.  Now  all  this  demands  a  small  portion  of 
Christian  patience,  taking  in  our  present  circumstances. 
My  apothecary  says  it  will  be  madness  for  me  to  walk  to 
Stowey  on  Tuesday,  as,  in  the  furious  zeal  of  a  new 
convert  to  economy,  I  had  resolved  to  do.  My  wife  will 
stay  a  week  or  fortnight  after  me;  I  think  it  not  im- 
probable that  the  weather  may  break  up  by  that  time. 
However,  if  I  do  not  get  worse,  I  will  be  with  you  by 
Wednesday  or  Thursday  at  the  furthest,  so  as  to  be  there 
before  the  waggon.  Is  there  any  grate  in  the  house?  I 
should  think  we  might  Rumfordize  one  of  the  chimneys. 
I  shall  bring  down  with  me  a  dozen  yards  of  green  list. 
I  can  endure  cold  but  not  a  cold  room.  If  we  can  but 
contrive  to  make  two  rooms  warm  and  wholesome,  we  will 
laugh  in  the  faces  of  gloom  and  ill-lookingness. 

I  shall  lose  the  post  if  I  say  a  word  more.  You  thor- 
oughly and  in  every  nook  and  corner  of  your  heart  for- 
give me  for  my  letters?  Indeed,  indeed,  Poole,  I  know 
no  one  whom  I  esteem  more — no  one  friend  whom  I  love 
so  much.  But  bear  with  my  infirmities!  God  bless  you, 
and  your  grateful  and  affectionate 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


44  SAMUEL   TAYLOK   COLEKIDGE    [^Et.  25 

[JEt.25] 

To  HIS  WIFE 
[THE  VOYAGE  TO  GERMANY] 

HAMBURG,  September  19,  1798. 
.  .  .  Over  what  place  does  the  moon  hang  to  your  eye, 
my  dearest  Sara?    To  me  it  hangs  over  the  left  bank  of 
the  Elbe,  and  a  long  trembling  road  of  moonlight  reaches 
from  thence  up  to  the  stern  of  our  vessel,  and  there  it 
ends.     We  have  dropped   anchor   in   the  middle   of   the 
stream,  thirty  miles  from  Cuxhaven,  where  we  arrived  this 
morning  at  eleven  o'clock,  after  an  unusually  fine  passage  | 
of  only  forty-eight  hours.     The  Captain  agreed  to  take  ! 
all  the  passengers  up  to  Hamburg  for  ten  guineas ;  my  i 
share  amounted  only  to  half  a  guinea.    We  shall  be  there,  i 
if  no  fogs  intervene,  to-morrow  morning.     Chester  was  j 
ill  the  whole  voyage ;  Wordsworth  shockingly  ill ;  his  sister 
worst  of  all,  and  I  neither  sick  nor  giddy,  but  gay  as  a 
lark.     The  sea  rolled  rather  high,   but   the  motion  was 
pleasant  to  me.     The  stink  of  a  sea  cabin  in  a  packet 
(what  with  the  bilge- water,  and  what  from  the  crowd  of 
sick  passengers)  is  horrible.     I  remained  chiefly  on  deck. 
We  left  Yarmouth   Sunday  morning,   September   16,   at 
eleven  o'clock.    Chester  and  Wordsworth  ill  immediately. 
Our  passengers  were :  ^  Wordsworth,  *  Chester,  S.  T.  Cole- 
ridge, a  Dane,  second  Dane,  third  Dane,  a  Prussian,  a 
Hanoverian  and  *his  servant,  a  German  tailor  and  his 

*  wife,  a  French  $  emigrant  and  *  French  servant,  *  two 
English  gentlemen,  and  $  a  Jew.    All  these  with  the  prefix 

*  were  sick,  those  marked  $  horribly  sick.     The  view  of 
Yarmouth  from  the  sea   is   interesting;   besides,   it   was 
English  ground  that  was  flying  away  from  me.     When 
we  lost  sight  of  land,  the  moment  that  we  quite  lost  sight 
of  it   and  the  heavens   all  around  me  rested  upon  the 
water,  my  dear  babes  came  upon  me  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning; I  saw  their  faces  so  distinctly!     This  day  enriched 
me  with  characters   and   I  passed   it  merrily.     Each  of 
these  characters  I  will  delineate  to  you  in  my  journal, 
-which  you  and  Poole  alternately  receive  regularly  as  soon 
as  I  arrive  at  any  settled  place,  which  will  be  in  a  week. 
Till  then  I  can  do  little  more  than  give  you  notice  of 
my  safety  and  my  faithful  affection  to  you  (but  tne  jour- 


Mt.  25]    SAMUEL   TAYLOK   COLEKIDGE  45 

nal  will  commence  from  the  day  of  my  arrival  at  London, 
and  give  every  day's  occurrence,  etc.).  I  Have  it  written, 
but  I  have  neither  paper  or  time  to  transcribe  it.  I  trust 
nothing  to  memory.  The  Ocean  is  a  noble  thing  by 
night;  a  beautiful  white  cloud  of  foam  at  momentary 
intervals  roars  and  rushes  by  the  side  of  the  vessel,  and 
stars  of  flame  dance  and  sparkle  and  go  out  in  it,  and 
every  now  and  then  light  detachments  of  foam  dart  away 
from  the  vessel's  side  with  their  galaxies  of  stars  and 
scour  out  of  sight  like  a  Tartar  troop  over  a  wilderness. 
What  these  stars  are  I  cannot  say ;  the  sailors  say  they  are 
fish  spawn,  which  is  phosphorescent.  The  noisy  passen- 
gers swear  in  all  their  languages,  with  drunken  hiccups, 
that  I  shall  write  no  more,  and  I  must  join  them.  Indeed, 
they  present  a  rich  feast  for  a  dramatist.  My  kind  love 
to  Mrs.  Poole  (with  what  wings  of  swiftness  would  I  fly 
home  if  I  could  find  something  in  Germany  to  do  her 
good!).  Remember  me  affectionately  to  Ward,  and  my 
love  to  the  Chesters  (Bessy,  Susan,  and  Julia)  and  to 
Cruickshank,  etc.,  etc.,  Ellen  and  Mary  when  you  see  them, 
and  to  Lavinia  Poole  and  Harriet  and  Sophy,  and  be  sure 
to  give  my  kind  love  to  Nanny.  I  associate  so  much  of 
Hartley's  infancy  with  her,  so  many  of  his  figures,  looks, 
words,  and  antics  with  her  form,  that  I  shall  never  cease 
to  think  of  her,  poor  girl !  without  [sic]  interest.  Tell  my 
best  good  friend,  my  dear  Poole !  that  all  his  manuscripts, 
with  Wordsworth's  Tragedy,  are  safe  in  Josiah  Wedg- 
wood's hands;  and  they  will  be  returned  to  him  together. 
Good-night,  my  dear,  dear  Sara ! — "every  night  when  I  go 
to  bed,  and  every  morning  when  I  rise,"  I  will  think  with 
yearning  love  of  you  and  of  my  blessed  babies!  Once 
more,  my  dear  Sara!  good-night. 

Wednesday  afternoon,  four  o'clock. — We  are  safe  in 
Hamburg — an  ugly  city  that  stinks  in  every  corner; 
house,  and  room  worse  than  cabins,  sea-sickness,  or  bilge- 
water!  The  hotels  are  all  crowded.  With  great  difficulty 
we  have  procured  a  very  filthy  room  at  a  large  expense; 
but  we  shall  move  to-morrow.  We  get  very  excellent  claret 
for  a  trifle — a  guinea  sells  at  present  for  more  than 
twenty-three  shillings  here.  But  for  all  particulars  I 
must  refer  your  patience  to  my  journal,  and  I  must  get 
some  proper  paper — I  shall  have  to  pay  a  shilling  or 


46  SAMUEL   TAYLOE   COLERIDGE    [Mt.  29 

eighteen  pence  with  every  letter.  N.B.  —  '  Johnson  the 
bookseller,  without  any  poems  sold  to  him,  but  purely  out 
of  affection  conceived  for  me,  and  as  part  of  anything  I 
might  do  for  him,  gave  me  an  order  on  Remnant  at 
Hamburg  for  thirty  pounds.  The  "Epea  Ptercenta,"  an 
Essay  on  Population,  and  a  "History  of  Paraguay,"  will 
come  down  for  me  directed  to  Poole,  and  for  Poole's 
reading.  Likewise  I  have  desired  Johnson  to  print  in 
quarto  a  little  poem  of  mine,  one  of  which  quartos  must 
be  sent  to  my  brother,  Rev.  G.  C.,  Ottery  St.  Mary,  car- 
riage paid.  Did  you  receive  my  letter  directed  in  a 
different  hand,  with  the  30  1.  banknote?  The  "Morning 
Post"  and  Magazine  will  come  to  you  as  before.  If  not 
regularly,  Stuart  desires  that  you  will  write  to  him.  I 
pray  you,  my  dear  love!  read  Edgeworth's  "Essay  on 
Education"  —  read  it  heart  and  soul,  and  if  you  approve 
of  the  mode,  teach  Hartley  his  letters.  I  am  very  de- 
sirous that  you  should  teach  him  to  read;  and  they  point 
out  some  easy  modes.  J.  Wedgwood  informed  me  that  the 
Edgeworths  were  most  miserable  when  children;  and  yet 
the  father  in  his  book  is  ever  vapouring  about  their  hap- 
piness. However,  there  are  very  good  things  in  the  work 
—  -and  some  nonsense. 

Kiss  my  Hartley  and  Bercoo  baby  brodder  (kiss  them 
for  their  dear  father,  whose  heart  will  never  be  absent 
from  them  many  hours  together).  My  dear  Sara!  I  think 
of  you  with  affection  and  a  desire  to  be  home,  and  in  the 
full  and  noblest  sense  of  the  word,  and  after  the  antique 
principles  of  Religion,,  unsophisticated  by  Philosophy,  will 
be,  I  trust,  your  husband  faithful  unto  death, 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


.  29] 

To  HIS  WIFE 
[A  VISIT  TO  LONDON] 

KING  STREET,  Co  VENT  GARDEN, 

[February  24,  1802.] 
My  dear  Love,  — 

I  am  sure  it  will  make  you  happy  to  hear  that  both 
my  health  and  spirits  have  greatly  improved,  and  I  have 
small  doubts  that  a  residence  of  two  years  in  a  mild  and 


Mt.  29]    SAMUEL    TAYLOR   COLERIDGE  47 

even  climate  will,  with  God's  blessing,  give  me  a  new 
lease  in  a  better  constitution.  You  may  be  well  assured 
that  I  shall  do  nothing  rashly,  but  our  journey  thither 
I  shall  defray  by  letters  to  Poole  and  the  Wedgwoods,  or 
more  probably  addressed  to  Mawman,  the  bookseller,  who 
will  honour  my  drafts  in  return.  Of  course  I  shall  not 
go  till  I  have  earned  all  the  money  necessary  for  the 
journey  that  I  can.  The  plan  will  be  this,  unless  you  can 
think  of  any  better.  Wordsworth  will  marry  soon  after 
my  return,  and  he,  Mary,  and  Dorothy  will  be  our  com- 
panions and  neighbours.  Southey  means,  if  it  is  in  his 
power,  to  pass  into  Spain  that  way.  About  July  we  shall 
all  set  sail  from  Liverpool  to  Bordeaux.  Wordsworth  has 
not  yet  settled  whether  he  shall  be  married  from  Gallow 
Hill  or  at  Grasmere.  But  they  will  of  course  make  a 
point  that  either  Sarah  shall  be  with  Mary  or  Mary  with 
Sarah  previous  to  so  long  a  parting.  If  it  be  decided 
that  Sarah  is  to  come  to  Grasmere,  I  shall  return  by 
York,  which  will  be  but  a  few  miles  out  of  the  way,  and 
bring  her.  At  all  events,  I  shall  stay  a  few  days  at 
Derby, — for  whom,  think  you,  should  I  meet  in  Davy's 
lecture-room  but  Joseph  Strutt?  He  behaved  most  af- 
fectionately to  me,  and  pressed  me  with  great  earnestness 
to  pass  through  Darley  (which  is  on  the  road  to  Derby) 
and  stay  a  few  days  at  his  house  among  my  old  friends. 
I  assure  you  I  was  much  affected  by  his  kind  and  affec- 
tionate invitation  (though  I  felt  a  little  awkward,  not 
knowing  whom  I  might  venture  to  ask  after).  I  could 
not  bring  out  the  word  "Mrs.  Evans,"  and  so  said,  "Your 
sister,  sir?  I  hope  she  is  well!" 

On  Sunday  I  dined  at  Sir  William  Rush's,  and  on 
Monday  likewise,  and  went  with  them  to  Mrs.  Billing- 
ton's  Benefit.  'Twas  the  "Beggar's  Opera;"  it  was  per- 
fection! I  seem  to  have  acquired  a  new  sense  by  hearing 
her.  I  wished  you  to  have  been  there.  I  assure  you  I 
am  quite  a  man  of  fashion;  so  many  titled  acquaintances 
and  handsome  carriages  stopping  at  my  door,  and  fine 
cards.  And  then  I  am  such  an  exquisite  judge  of  music 
and  painting,  and  pass  criticisms  on  furniture  and  chan- 
deliers, and  pay  such  very  handsome  compliments  to  all 
women  of  fashion,  that  I  do  verily  believe  that  if  I  were 
to  stay  three  months  in  town  and  have  tolerable  health 


48  SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE    [Mt.  29 

and  spirits,  I  should  be  a  Thing  in  vogue, — the  very 
tonnish  poet  and  Jemmy-Jessamy-fine-talker  in  town.  If 
you  were  only  to  see  the  tender  smiles  that  I  occasionally 
receive  from  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Darner!  you  would 
scratch  her  eyes  out  for  jealousy!  And  then  there's  the 

sweet  (N.B. — musky)  Lady  Charlotte  !     Nay,  but  I 

won't  tell  you  her  name, — you  might  perhaps  take  it  into 
your  head  to  write  an  anonymous  letter  to  her,  and  dis- 
trust our  little  innocent  amour. 

Oh  that  I  were  at  Keswick  with  my  darlings !  My  Hart- 
ley and  my  fat  Derwent!  God  bless  you,  my  dear  Sarah! 
I  shall  return  in  love  and  cheerfulness,  and  therefore  in 
pleasurable  convalescence,  if  not  in  health.  We  shall  try 
to  get  poor  dear  little  Robert  into  Christ's  Hospital;  that 
wretch  of  a  Quaker  will  do  nothing.  The  skulking  rogue! 
just  to  lay  hold  of  the  time  when  Mrs.  Lovell  was  on  a 
visit  to  Southey;  there  was  such  low  cunning  in  the 
thought. 

Remember  me  most  kindly  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilkinson, 
and  tell  Mr.  Jackson  that  I  have  not  shaken  a  hand 
since  I  quitted  him  with  more  esteem  and  glad  feeling 
than  I  shall  soon,  I  trust,  shake  his  with.  God  bless  you, 
and  your  affectionate,  and  faithful  husband  (notwithstand- 
ing the  Honourable  Mrs.  D.  and  Lady  Charlotte!), 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

[  Mi.  29] 

TO  W.  SOTHEBY 

[HARTLEY  AND  DERWENT] 

GRETA  HALL,  KESWICK, 
Tuesday,  September  27,  1802. 
My  dear  Sir, — 

The  river  is  full,  and  Lodore  is  full,  and  silver-fillets 
come  out  of  clouds  and  glitter  in  every  ravine  of  all  the 
mountains;  and  hail  lies  like  snow  upon  their  tops,  and 
the  impetuous  gusts  from  Borrowdale  snatch  the  water 
up  high,  and  continually  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake  it  is 
not  distinguishable  from  snow  slanting  before  the  wind — 
and  under  this  seeming  snow-drift  the  sunshine  gleams, 
and  over  all  the  nether  half  of  the  Lake  it  is  bright  and 
dazzles,  a  cauldron  of  melted  silver  boiling!  It  is  in  very 


^Et.  31]    SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE  49 

truth  a  sunny,  misty,  cloudy,  dazzling,  howling,  omniform 
day,  and  I  have  been  looking  at  as  pretty  a  sight  as  a 
father's  eyes  could  well  see — Hartley  and  little  Derwent 
running  in  the  green  where  the  gusts  blow  most  madly, 
both  with  their  hair  floating  and  tossing,  a  miniature  of 
the  agitated  trees,  below  which  they  were  playing,  inebri- 
ate both  with  the  pleasure — Hartley  whirling  round  for 
;joy,  Derwent  eddying,  half -willingly,  half  by  the  force 
of  the  gust, — driven  backward,  struggling  forward,  and 
!  shouting  his  little  hymn  of  joy.  I  can  write  thus  to  you, 
my  dear  sir,  with  a  confident  spirit;  for  when  I  received 
your  letter  on  the  22nd,  and  had  read  the  "family  his- 
tory," I  laid  down  the  sheet  upon  my  desk,  and  sate  for 
half  an  hour  thinking  of  you,  dreaming  of  you,  till  the 
tear  grown  cold  upon  my  cheek  awoke  me  from  my 
reverie.  May  you  live  long,  long,  thus  blessed  in  your 
family,  and  often,  often,  may  you  all  sit  around  one 
fireside.  Oh  happy  should  I  be  now  and  then  to  sit  among 
you — your  pilot  and  guide  in  some  of  your  summer 
walks!  . 


[^Et.31] 

To  ROBERT  SOUTHEY 
[COLERIDGE  "THUNDERS  AND  LIGHTENS"] 

RICKMAN'S  OFFICE,  H.  OF  COMMONS, 

February  20,  1804,  Monday  noon. 
Dear  Souihey, — 

The  affair  with  Godwin  began  thus.  We  were  talking 
of  reviews,  and  bewailing  their  ill  effects.  I  detailed  my 
plan  for  a  review,  to  occupy  regularly  the  fourth  side  of 
an  evening  paper,  etc.,  etc.,  adding  that  it  had  been  a 
favorite  scheme  with  me  for  two  years  past.  Godwin 
rery  coolly  observed  that  it  was  a  plan  which  "no  man 
who  had  a  spark  of  honest  pride"  could  join  with.  "No 
man,  not  the  slave  of  the  grossest  egotism  could  unite  in," 
3tc.  Cool  and  civil!  I  ask  whether  he  and  most  others 
did  not  already  do  what  I  proposed  in  prefaces.  "Aye! 
in  prefaces;  that  is  quite  a  different  thing."  I  then  ad- 
rerted  to  the  extreme  rudeness  of  the  speech  with  regard 
to  myself,  and  added  that  it  was  not  only  a  very  rough, 


50  SAMUEL   TAYLOK   COLERIDGE    [Mt.  31 

but  likewise  a  very  mistaken  opinion,  for  I  was  nearly  if 
not  quite  sure  that  it  had  received  the  approbation  both 
of  you  and  of  Wordsworth.  "Yes,  sir!  just  so!  of  Mr. 
Southey — just  what  I  said,"  and  so  on  more  Godwinidno 
in  language  so  ridiculously  and  exclusively  appropriate 
to  himself,  that  it  would  have  made  you  merry.  It  was 
even  as  if  he  was  looking  into  a  sort  of  moral  looking- 
glass,  without  knowing  what  it  was,  and,  seeing  his  own 
very,  very  Godwinship,  had  by  a  merry  conceit  christened 
it  in  your  name,  not  without  some  annexment  of  me  and 
Wordsworth.  I  replied  by  laughing  in  the  first  place  at 
the  capricious  nature  of  his  nicety,  that  what  was  gross 
in  folio  should  become  double-refined  in  octavo  foolscap 
or  pickpocket  quartos,  blind  slavish  egotism  in  small  pica, 
manly  discriminating  self-respect  in  double  primer,  mod- 
est as  maiden's  blushes  between  boards,  or  in  calf-skin, 
and  only  not  obscene  in  naked  sheets.  And  then  in  a 
deep  and  somewhat  sarcastic  tone,  tried  to  teach  him  to 
speak  more  reverentially  of  his  betters,  by  stating  what 
and  who  they  were,  by  whom  honoured,  by  whom  depre- 
ciated. Well !  this  gust  died  away.  I  was  going  home  to 
look  over  his  Duncity ;  he  begged  me  to  stay  till  his 
return  in  half  an  hour.  I,  meaning  to  take  nothing  more 
the  whole  evening,  took  a  crust  of  bread,  and  Mary 
Lamb  made  me  a  glass  of  punch  of  most  deceitful 
strength.  Instead  of  half  an  hour,  Godwin  stayed  an  J 
hour  and  a  half.  In  came  his  wife,  Mrs.  Fenwick,  and 
four  young  ladies,  and  just  as  Godwin  returned,  supper 
came  in,  and  it  was  now  useless  to  go  (at  supper  I  was 
rather  a  mirth-maker  than  merry).  I  was  disgusted  at 
heart  with  the  grossness  and  vulgar  insanocecity  of  this 
dim-headed  prig  of  a  philosophocide,  when,  after  supper, 
his  ill  stars  impelled  him  to  renew  the  contest.  I  begged 
him  not  to  goad  me,  for  that  I  feared  my  feelings  would 
not  long  remain  in  my  power.  He  (to  my  wonder  and 
indignation)  persisted  (I  had  not  deciphered  the  cause), 
and  then,  as  he  well  said,  I  did  "thunder  and  lighten  at 
him"  with  a  vengeance  for  more  than  a  hour  and  a  half. 
Every  effort  of  self-defence  only  made  him  more  ridicu- 
lous. If  I  had  been  Truth  in  person,  I  could  not  have 
spoken  more  accurately;  but  it  was  truth  in  a  war-chariot, 
drawn  by  the  three  Furies,  and  the  reins  had  slipped  out 


JEt.  31]    SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE  51 

of  the  goddess's  hands!  .  .  .  Yet  he  did  not  absolutely 
give  way  till  that  stinging  contrast  which  I  drew  between 
him  as  a  man,  as  a  writer,  and  a  benefactor  of  society, 
and  those  of  whom  he  had  spoken  so  irreverently.  In 
short,  I  suspect  that  I  seldom,  at  any  time  and  for  so 
great  a  length  of  time,  so  continuously  displayed  so  much 
power,  and  do  hope  and  trust  that  never  did  I  display  one 
half  the  scorn  and  ferocity.  The  next  morning,  the  mo- 
ment when  I  awoke,  O  mercy!  I  did  feel  like  a  very 
wretch.  I  got  up  and  immediately  wrote  and  sent  off 
by  a  porter,  a  letter,  I  dare  affirm  an  affecting  and  elo- 
quent letter  to  him,  and  since  then  have  been  working 
for  him,  for  I  was  heart-smitten  with  the  recollection  that 
I  had  said  all,  all  in  the  presence  of  his  wife.  But  if  I 
had  known  all  I  now  know,  I  will  not  say  that  I  should 
not  have  apologised,  but  most  certainly  I  should  not 
have  made  such  an  apology,  for  he  confessed  to  Lamb 
that  he  should  not  have  persisted  in  irritating  me,  but 
that  Mrs.  Godwin  had  twitted  him  for  his  prostration 
before  me,  as  if  he  was  afraid  to  say  his  life  was  his 
own  in  my  presence.  He  admitted,  too,  that  although 
he  never  to  the  very  last  suspected  that  I  was  tipsy,  yet 
he  saw  clearly  that  something  unusual  ailed  me,  and  that 
I  had  not  been  my  natural  self  the  whole  evening.  What 
a  poor  creature !  To  attack  a  man  who  had  been  so  kind 
to  him  at  the  instigation  of  such  a  woman!  And  what  a 
woman  to  instigate  him  to  quarrel  with  me,  who  with  as 
much  power  as  any,  and  more  than  most  of  his  acquaint- 
ances, had  been  perhaps  the  only  one  who  had  never  made 
a  butt  of  him — who  had  uniformly  spoken  respectfully 
to  him.  But  it  is  past!  And  I  trust  will  teach  me  wis- 
dom in  future. 

I  have  undoubtedly  suffered  a  great  deal  from  a  cow- 
ardice in  not  daring  to  repel  unassimilating  acquaintances 
who  press  forward  upon  my  friendship;  but  I  dare  aver, 
that  if  the  circumstances  of  each  particular  case  were 
examined,  they  would  prove  on  the  whole  honourable  to 
me  rather  than  otherwise.  But  I  have  had  enough  and 
done  enough.  Hereafter  I  shall  show  a  different  face,  and 
calmly  inform  those  who  press  upon  me  that  my  health, 
spirits,  and  occupation  alike  make  it  necessary  for  me  to 
confine  myself  to  the  society  of  those  with  whom  I  have 


52  SAMUEL   TAYLOK   COLEEIDGE    [^Et.  34 

the  nearest  and  highest  connection.  So  help  me  God!  I 
will  hereafter  be  quite  sure  that  I  do  really  and  in  the 
whole  of  my  heart  esteem  and  like  a  man  before  I  permit 
him  to  call  me  friend. 

I  am  very  anxious  that  you  should  go  on  with  your 
"Madoc."  If  the  thought  had  happened  to  suggest  itself 
to  you  originally  and  with  all  these  modifications  and 
polypus  tendrils  with  which  it  would  have  caught  hold 
of  your  subject,  I  am  afraid  that  you  would  not  have 
made  the  first  voyage  as  interesting  at  least  as  it  ought 
to  be,  so  as  to  preserve  entire  the  fit  proportion  of  in- 
terest. But  go  on! 

I  shall  call  on  Longman  as  soon  as  I  receive  an  answer 
from  him  to  a  note  which  I  sent.  .  .  . 

God  bless  you  and 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


.  34] 

To  HIS  WIFE 
[A  VISIT  TO  SIR  GEORGE  BEAUMONT's] 

[FARMHOUSE  NEAR  COLEORTON,] 

December  25,  1806. 
My  dear  Sara,  — 

By  my  letter  from  Derby  you  will  have  been  satisfied 
of  our  safety  so  far.  We  had,  however,  been  grossly  de- 
ceived as  to  the  equi-distance  of  Derby  and  Loughborough. 
The  expense  was  nearly  double.  Still,  however,  I  was  in 
such  torture  and  my  boils  bled,  throbbed,  and  stabbed  so 
con  furia,  that  perhaps  I  have  no  reason  for  regret.  At 
Coleorton  we  found  them  dining,  Sunday,  %  past  one 
o'clock.  To-day  is  Xmas  day.  Of  course  we  were  wel- 
comed with  an  uproar  of  sincere  joy:  and  Hartley  hung 
suspended  between  the  ladies  for  a  long  minute.  The 
children,  too,  jubilated  at  Hartley's  arrival.*  He  has 
behaved  very  well  indeed  —  only  that  when  he  could  -get 
out  of  the  coach  at  dinner,  I  was  obliged  to  be  in  incessant 
watch  to  prevent  him  from  rambling  off  into  the  fields. 
He  twice  ran  into  a  field,  and  to  the  further  end  of  it, 
and  once  after  the  dinner  was  on  table,  I  was  out  five 

*  Hartley  was  at  this  time  ten  years  old. 


JEt.  34]    SAMUEL   TAYLOK   COLERIDGE  53 

minutes  seeking  him  in  great  alarm,  and  found  him  at 
the  further  end  of  a  wet  meadow,  on  the  marge  of  a 
river.  After  dinner,  fearful  of  losing  our  places  by  the 
window  (of  the  long  coach),  I  ordered  him  to  go  into  the 
coach  and  sit  in  the  place  where  he  was  before,  and  I 
would  follow.  In  about  five  minutes  I  followed.  No 
Hartley!  Halloing — in  vain!  At  length,  where  should  I 
discover  him!  In  the  same  meadow,  only  at  a  greater 
distance,  and  close  cfbwn  on  the  very  edge  of  the  water. 
I  was  angry  from  downright  fright!  And  what,  think 
you,  was  Cataphract's  excuse !  "It  was  a  misunderstand- 
ing, Father!  I  thought,  you  see,  that  you  bid  me  go  to 
the  very  same  place,  in  the  meadow  where  I  was."  I  told 
him  that  he  had  interpreted  the  text  by  the  suggestions 
of  the  flesh,  not  the  inspiration  of  the  spirit ;  and  his  Wish 
the  naughty  father  of  the  baseborn  Thought.  However, 
saving  and  excepting  his  passion  for  field  truantry,  and 
his  hatred  of  confinement  (in  which  his  fancy  at  least — 

Doth  sing  a  doleful  song  about  green  fields; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  woods  and  wild  savannas ; 
To  hunt  for  food  and  be  a  naked  man 
And  wander  up  and  down  at  liberty ! ) , 

he  is  a  very  good  and  sweet  child,  of  strict  honour  and 
truth,  from  which  he  never  deviates  except  in  the  form 
of  sophism  when  he  sports  his  logical  false  dice  in  the 
game  of  excuses.  This,  however,  is  the  mere  effect  of  his 
activity  of  thought,  and  his  aiming  at  being  clever  and 
ingenious.  He  is  exceedingly  amiable  toward  children. 
All  here  love  him  most  dearly:  and  your  namesake  takes 
upon  her  all  the  duties  of  his  mother  and  darling  friend, 
with  all  the  mother's  love  and  fondness.  He  is  very  fond 
of  her;  but  it  is  very  pretty  to  hear  how,  without  any  one 
set  declaration  of  his  attachment  to  Mrs.  Wilson  and  Mr. 
Jackson,  his  love  for  them  continually  breaks  out — so 
many  things  remind  him  of  them,  and  in  the  coach  he 
talked  to  the  strangers  of  them  just  as  if  everybody  must 
know  Mr.  J.  and  Mrs.  W.  His  letter  is  only  half  written; 
so  cannot  go  to-day.  We  all  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas 
and  many  following  ones.  Concerning  the  London  Lec- 
tures, we  are  to  discuss  it,  William  and  I,  this  evening, 


54  SAMUEL    TAYLOK    COLERIDGE    [Mt.  41 

and  I  shall  write  you  at  full  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
To-morrow  there  is  no  post,  but  this  letter  I  mean  merely 
as  bearer  of  the  tidings  of  our  safe  arrival.  I  am  better 
than  usual.  Hartley  has  coughed  a  little  every  morning 
since  he  left  Greta  Hall;  but  only  such  a  little  cough  as 
you  heard  from  him  at  the  door.  He  is  in  high  health. 
All  the  children  have  the  hooping-cough;  but  in  an  ex- 
ceedingly mild  degree.  Neither  Sarah  Hutchinson  nor  I 
ever  remember  to  have  had  it.  Hartley  is  made  to  keep 
at  a  distance  from  them,  and  only  to  play  with  Johnny 
in  the  open  air.  I  found  my  spice-megs;  but  many 
papers  I  miss. 

The  post  boy  waits. 

My  love  to  Mrs.  Lovell,  to  Southey  and  Edith,  and  be- 
lieve me  anxiously  and  forever, 

Your  sincere  friend, 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


To  JOSEPH  COTTLE 
[LAUDANUM] 

April  26,  1814. 

You  have  poured  oil  in  the  raw  and  festering  wound 
of  an  old  friend's  conscience,  Cottle!  but  it  is  oil  of 
vitriol!  I  but  barely  glanced  at  the  middle  of  the  first 
page  of  your  letter,  and  have  seen  no  more  of  it  —  not 
from  resentment  (God  forbid!),  but  from  the  state  of  my 
bodily  and  mental  sufferings,  that  scarcely  permitted  hu- 
man fortitude  to  let  in  a  new  visitor  of  affliction. 

The  object  of  my  present  reply  is  to  state  the  case  just 
as  it  is.  Eirst,  that  for  ten  years  the  anguish  of  my  spirit 
has  been  indescribable,  the  sense  of  my  danger  staring, 
but  the  consciousness  of  my  GUILT  worse,  far  worse  than 
all.  I  have  prayed,  with  drops  of  agony  on  my  brow, 
trembling  not  only  before  the  justice  of  my  Maker,  but 
even  before  the  mercy  of  my  Redeemer.  "I  gave  thee  so 
many  talents,  what  hast  thou  done  with  them?"  Sec- 
ondly, overwhelmed  as  I  am  with  a  sense  of  my  direful 
infirmity,  I  have  never  attempted  to  disguise  or  conceal 
the  cause.  On  the  contrary,  not  only  to  friends  have  I 
stated  the  whole  case  with  tears  and  the  very  bitterness 
of  shame,  but  in  two  instances  I  have  warned  young  men, 


Mt.  41]    SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE  55 

mere  acquaintances,  who  had  spoken  of  having  taken 
laudanum,  of  the  direful  consequences,  by  an  awful  ex- 
position of  the  tremendous  effects  on  myself. 

Thirdly,  though  before  God  I  cannot  lift  up  my  eyelids, 
and  only  do  not  despair  of  his  mercy,  because  to  despair 
would  be  adding  crime  to  crime,  yet  to  my  fellowmen  I 
may  say  that  I  was  seduced  into  the  ACCURSED  habit 
ignorantly.  I  had  been  almost  bed-ridden  for  many 
months  with  swellings  in  my  knees.  In  a  medical  jour- 
nal, I  unhappily  met  with  an  account  of  a  cure  performed 
in  a  similar  case  (or  what  appeared  to  me  so),  by  rubbing 
of  laudanum,  at  the  same  time  taking  a  given  dose  in- 
ternally. It  acted  like  a  charm,  like  a  miracle!  I  re- 
covered the  use  of  my  limbs,  of  my  appetite,  of  my  spirits, 
and  this  continued  for  a  fortnight.  At  length  the  un- 
usual stimulus  subsided,  the  complaint  returned,  the  sup- 
posed remedy  was  recurred  to — but  I  cannot  go  through 
the  dreary  history. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  effects  were  produced  which  acted 
on  me  by  terror  and  cowardice,  of  pain  and  sudden  death, 
not  (so  help  me  God!)  by  any  temptation  of  pleasure,  or 
expectation,  or  desire  of  exciting  pleasurable  sensations. 
On  the  very .  contrary,  Mrs.  Morgan  and  her  sister  will 
bear  witness,  so  far  as  to  say,  that  the  longer  I  abstained 
the  higher  my  spirits  were,  the  keener  my  enjoyment — 
till  the  moment,  the  direful  moment,  arrived  when  my 
pulse  began  to  fluctuate,  my  heart  to  palpitate,  and  such 
a  dreadful  falling  abroad,  as  it  were,  of  my  whole  frame, 
such  intolerable  restlessness,  and  incipient  bewilderment, 
that  in  the  last  of  my  several  attempts  to  abandon  the 
dire  poison,  I  exclaimed  in  agony,  which  I  now  repeat 
in  seriousness  and  solemnity,  "I  am  too  poor  to  hazard 
this."  Had  I  but  a  few  hundred  pounds,  but  £200 — half 
to  send  to  Mrs.  Coleridge,  and  half  to  place  myself  in  a 
private  madhouse,  where  I  could  procure  nothing  but 
what  a  physician  thought  proper,  and  where  a  medical 
attendant  could  be  constantly  with  me  for  two  or  three 
months  (in  less  than  that  time  life  or  death  would  be 
determined),  then  there  might  be  hope.  Now  there  is 
none ! !  O  God !  how  willingly  would  I  place  myself  under 
Dr.  Fox,  in  his  establishment;  for  my  case  is  a  species 
of  madness,  only  that  it  is  a  derangement,  an  utter  im- 


56  SAMUEL  TAYLOK   COLEKIDGE     [Mt.  43 


potence  of  the  volition,  and  not  of  the  intellectual  facul- 
ties. You  bid  me  rouse  myself :  go  bid  a  man  paralytic 
in  both  arms,  to  rub  them  briskly  together,  and  that  will 
cure  him.  "Alas!"  he  would  reply,  "that  I  cannot  move 
my  arms  is  my  complaint  and  my  misery." 

May  God  bless  you,   and  your  affectionate,   but  mo 
afflicted, 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


ic 

m 

: 


.  43] 

To  JAMES  GILLMAN 
[LAMB'S  "ARCHANGEL,  A  LITTLE  DAMAGED"] 

42,  NORFOLK  STREET,  STRAND, 
Saturday  noon  [April  13,  1816.] 
My  dear  Sir, — 

The  very  first  half  hour  I  was  with  you  convinced  me 
that  I  should  owe  my  reception  into  your  family  ex- 
clusively to  motives  not  less  flattering  to  me  than  honour- 
able to  yourself.  I  trust  we  shall  ever  in  matters  of  in- 
tellect be  reciprocally  serviceable  to  each  other.  Men  of 
sense  generally  come  to  the  same  conclusion;  but  they 
are  likely  to  contribute  to  each  other's  exchangement  of 
view,  in  proportion  to  the  distance  or  even  opposition  of 
the  points  from  which  they  set  out.  Travel  and  the 
strange  variety  of  situations  and  employments  on  which 
chance  has  thrown  me,  in  the  course  of  my  life,  might 
have  made  me  a  mere  man  of  observation,  if  pain  and 
sorrow  and  self-miscomplacence  had  not  forced  my  mind 
in  on  itself,  and  so  formed  habits  of  meditation.  It  is 
now  as  much  my  nature  to  evolve  the  fact  from  the  law, 
as  that  of  a  practical  man  to  deduce  the  law  from  the 
fact.  •; 

With  respect  to  pecuniary  remuneration,  allow  me  to 
say,  I  must  not  at  least  be  suffered  to  make  any  addition 
to  your  family  expenses — though  I  cannot  offer  anything 
that  would  be  in  any  way  adequate  to  my  sense  of  the 
service;  for  that,  indeed,  there  could  not  be  a  compen- 
sation, as  it  must  be  returned  in  kind,  by  esteem  and 
grateful  affection. 

And  now  of  myself.  My  ever  wakeful  reason,  and  the 
keenness  of  my  moral  feelings,  will  secure  you  from  all 


Mt.  46]     SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE  57 

unpleasant  circumstances  connected  with  me,  save  only 
one,  viz.,  the  evasion  of  a  specific  madness.  You  will 
never  hear  anything  but  truth  from  me:  —  prior  habits 
render  it  out  of  my  power  to  tell  an  untruth,  but  unless 
carefully  observed,  I  dare  not  promise  that  I  should  not, 
with  regard  to  this  detested  poison,  be  capable  of  acting 
one.  No  sixty  hours  have  yet  passed  without  my  having 
taken  laudanum,  though  for  the  last  week  [in]  compara- 
tively trifling  doses.  I  have  full  belief  that  your  anxiety 
need  not  be  extended  beyond  the.  first  week,  and  for  the 
first  week  I  shall  not,  I  must  not,  be  permitted  to  leave 
your  house,  unless  with  you.  Delicately  or  indelicately, 
this  must  be  done,  and  both  the  servants  and  the  assist- 
ant must  receive  absolute  commands  from  you.  The 
stimulus  of  conversation  suspends  the  terror  that  haunts 
my  mind;  but  when  I  am  alone,  the  horrors  I  have  suf- 
fered from  laudanum,  the  degradation,  the  blighted  util- 
ity, almost  overwhelm  me.  If  (as  I  feel  for  the  first  time 
a  soothing  confidence  it  will  prove)  I  should  leave  you 
restored  to  my  moral  and  bodily  health,  it  is  not  myself 
only  that  will  love  and  honour  you;  every  friend  I  have 
(and  thank  God!  in  spite  of  this  wretched  vice,  I  have 
many  and  warm  ones,  who  were  friends  of  my  youth  and 
have  never  deserted  me)  will  thank  you  with  reverence. 
I  have  taken  no  notice  of  your  kind  apologies.  If  I  could 
not  be  comfortable  in  your  house,  and  with  your  family, 
I  should  deserve  to  be  miserable.  If  you  could  make  it 
convenient  I  should  wish  to  be  with  you  by  Monday  even- 
ing, as  it  would  prevent  the  necessity  of  taking  fresh 
lodgings  in  town. 

With  respectful  compliments  to  Mrs.  Gillman  and  her 
sister,  I  remain,  dear  sir,  your  much  obliged 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


46] 

To  JAMES  GILLMAN 

[SEA-BATHING] 

.     [RAMSGATE,  Postmark,  August  20,  1819.] 
My  dear  Friend,  — 

Whether  from  the  mere  intensity  of  the  heat,  and  the 
restless,  almost  sleepless,  nights  in  consequence,  or  from 


58  SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE     [Mt.  61 

incautious  exposure  to  draughts;  or  whether  simply  the 
change  of  air  and  the  sea  bath  was  repairing  the  in- 
testinal canal  (and  bad  indeed  must  the  road  be  which 
is  not  better  than  a  road  a-mending,  a  hint  which  our 
revolutionary  reformers  would  do  well  to  attend  to)  or 
from  whatever  cause,  I  have  been  miserably  unwell  for 
the  last  three  days  —  but  last  night  passed  a  tolerably  good 
night,  and,  finding  myself  convalescent  this  morning,  I 
bathed,  and  now  am  still  better,  having  had  a  glorious 
tumble  in  the  waves,  though  the  water  is  still  not  cold 
enough  for  my  liking.  The  weather,  however,  is  evi- 
dently on  the  change,  and  we  have  now  a  succession  of 
flying  April  showers,  and  needle  rains.  My  bath  is  about 
a  mile  and  a  quarter  from  the  Lime  Grove,  a  wearisome 
travail  by  the  deep  crumbly  sands,  but  a  very  pleasant 
breezy  walk  along  the  top  of  the  cliff,  from  which  you 
descend  through  a  deep  steep  lane  cut  through  the  chalk 
rocks.  The  tide  comes  up  to  the  end  of  the  lane,  and 
washes  the  cliff,  but  a  little  before  or  a  little  after  high 
tide  there  are  nice  clean  seats  of  rock  with  foot-baths, 
and  then  an  expanse  of  sand,  greater  than  I  need;  and 
exactly  a  hundred  of  my  strides  from  the  tnd  of  the  lane 
there  is  a  good,  roomy,  arched  cavern,  with  an  oven  or 
cupboard  in  it,  where  one's  clothes  may  be  put  free  from 
the  sand.  ...  I  find  that  I  can  write  no  more  if  I  am 
to  send  this  by  to-day's  post.  Pray,  if  you  can  with  any 
sort  of  propriety,  do  come  down  to  me  —  to  us,  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  say.  We  are  all  as  should  be  BUT 


God  bless  you  and 

S.  T.  0. 
61] 

To  ADAM  STEINMETZ  KENNARD 
[WITHIN  TWO  WEEKS  OF  THE  END] 

GROVE,  HIGHGATE,  July  13,  1834. 
My  dear  Godchild,  — 

I  offer  up  the  same  fervent  prayer  for  you  now  as  I 
did  kneeling  before  the  altar  when  you  were  baptized 
into  Christ,  and  solemnly  received  as  a  living  member  of 
His  spiritual  body,  the  church.  Years  must  pass  before 
you  will  be  able  to  read  with  an  understanding  heart  what 


Mi.  61]     SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE  59 

I  now  write.  But  I  trust  that  the  all-gracious  God,  the 
Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the  Father  of  mercies, 
who  by  His  only-begotten  Son  (all  mercies  in  one  sov- 
ereign mercy!)  has  redeemed  you  from  evil  ground,  and 
willed  you  to  be  born  out  of  darkness,  but  into  light;  out 
of  death,  but  into  life;  out  of  sin,  but  into  righteousness; 
even  into  "the  Lord  our  righteousness," — I  trust  that  He 
will  graciously  hear  the  prayers  of  your  dear  parents,  and 
be  with  you  as  the  spirit  of  health  and  growth,  in  body 
and  in  mind.  My  dear  godchild,  you  received  from 
Christ's  minister  at  the  baptismal  font,  as  your  Christian 
name,  the  name  of  a  most  dear  friend  of  your  father's, 
and  who  was  to  me  even  as  a  son, — the  late  Adam  Stein- 
metz,  whose  fervent  aspirations  and  paramount  aim,  even 
from  early  youth,  was  to  be  a  Christian  in  thought,  word, 
and  deed;  in  will,  mind,  and  affections.  I,  too,  your  god- 
father, have  known  what  the  enjoyments  and  advantages 
of  this  life  are,  and  what  the  more  refined  pleasures  which 
learning  and  intellectual  power  can  give;  I  now,  on  the 
eve  of  my  departure,  declare  to  you,  and  earnestly  pray 
that  you  may  hereafter  live  and  act  on  the  conviction, 
that  health  is  a  great  blessing;  competence,  obtained  by 
honourable  industry,  a  great  blessing;  and  a  great  bless- 
ing it  is,  to  have  kind,  faithful,  and  loving  friends  and 
relatives;  but  that  the  greatest  of  all  blessings,  as  it  is 
the  most  ennobling  of  all  privileges,  is  to  be  indeed  a 
Christian.  But  I  have  been  likewise,  through  a  large  por- 
tion of  my  later  life,  a  sufferer,  sorely  affected  with  bodily 
pains,  languor,  and  manifold  infirmities;  and  for  the  last 
three  or  four  years  have,  with  few  and  brief  intervals, 
been  confined  to  a  sick-room,  and  at  this  moment,  in 
great  weakness  and  heaviness,  write  from  a  sick-bed,  hope- 
less of  recovery,  yet  without  prospect  of  a  speedy  removal. 
And  I  thus,  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  solemnly  bear  wit- 
ness to  you,  that  the  Almighty  Redeemer,  most  gracious 
in  His  promises  to  them  that  truly  seek  Him,  is  faithful 
to  perform  what  he  has  promised ;  and  has  reserved,  under 
all  pains  and  infirmities,  the  peace  that  passeth  all  under- 
standing, with  the  supporting  assurance  of  a  reconciled 
God,  who  will  not  withdraw  His  spirit  from  me  in  the 
conflict,  and  in  His  own  time  will  deliver  me  from  the 
evil  one.  Oh,  my  dear  godchild!  eminently  blessed  are 


60  FRANCIS   LOKD   JEFFKEY         [^Et.  29 

they  who  begin  early  to  seek,  fear,  and  love  their  God, 
trusting  wholly  in  the  righteousness  and  mediation  of 
their  Lord,  Eedeemer,  Saviour,  and  everlasting  High 
Priest,  Jesus  Christ.  Oh,  preserve  this  as  a  legacy  and 
bequest  from  your  unseen  godfather  and  friend, 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


[Mt.  29]       FRANCIS   LOKD   JEFFEEY 

1773-1850 

To  JOHN  JEFFREY 

[THE  "EDINBURGH  REVIEW"] 

EDINBURGH,  2d  July,  1803. 
My  dear  John, — 

It  will  be  a  sad  thing  if  your  reformation  be  the  cause 
of  my  falling  off;  yet  it  is  certain  that  since  you  have 
begun  to  write  oftener,  my  letters  have  begun  to  be  more 
irregular,  &c. 

I  am  glad  you  have  got  our  Review,  and  that  you  like 
it.  Your  partiality  to  my  articles  is  a  singular  proof  of 
your  judgment.  In  No.  3,  I  do  Gentz,  Hayley's  Cowper, 
Sir  J.  Sinclair,  and  Thelwall. '  In  No.  4,  which  is  now 
printing,  I  have  Miss  Baillie's  Plays,  Comparative  View 
of  Geology,  Lady  Mary  Wortley,  and  some  little  ones.  I 
do  not  think  you  know  any  of  my  associates.  There  is 
the  sage  Horner,  however,  whom  you  have  seen,  and  who 
has  gone  to  the  English  bar  with  the  resolution  of  being 
Lord  Chancellor;  Brougham,  a  great  mathematician,  who 
has  just  published  a  book  upon  the  Colonial  Policy  of 
Europe,  which  all  you  Americans  should  read;  Rev.  Sid- 
ney Smith,  and  P.  Elmsley,  two  learned  Oxonian  priests, 
full  of  jokes  and  erudition;  my  excellent  little  Sanscrit 
Hamilton,  who  is  also  in  the  hands  of  Bonaparte  at 
Fontainebleau ;  Thomas  Thomson  and  John  Murray,  two 
ingenious  advocates;  and  some  dozen  of  occasional  con- 
tributors, among  whom,  the  most  illustrious,  I  think,  are 
young  Watt  of  Birmingham,  and  Davy  of  the  Royal  In- 
stitution. We  sell  2,500  copies  already,  and  hope  to  do 
double  that  in  six  months,  if  we  are  puffed  enough.  I 
wish  you  could  try  if  you  can  repandre  us  upon  your 
continent,  and  use  what  interest  you  can  with  the  liter- 


&&  43]         FKANCIS   LOKD   JEFFEEY  61 

ati,  or  rather  with  the  booksellers  of  New  York  and  Phila- 
delphia. I  believe  I  have  not  told  you  that  the  concern 
aas  now  become  to  be  of  some  emolument.  After  the 
fourth  number  the  publishers  are  to  pay  the  writers  na 
less  than  ten  guineas  a  sheet,  which  is  three  times  what 
was  ever  paid  before  for  such  a  work,  and  to  allow  £50  a 
number  to  an  editor.  I  shall  have  the  offer  of  that  first,. 
[  believe,  and  I  think  I  shall  take  it,  with  the  full  power 
Df  laying  it  down  whenever  I  think  proper.  The  publi- 
2ation  is  in  the  highest  degree  respectable  as  yet,  as  there 
are  none  but  gentlemen  connected  with  it.  If  it  ever 
sink  into  the  state  of  an  ordinary  bookseller's  journal,  I 
have  done  with  it. 


.  43] 

To  MRS.  GOLDEN 

[THOMAS  MOORE;  MISS  EDGEWORTH;  OLD  ENGLAND] 

MARDOCKS,  6th  May,  1822, 
My  dear  Fanny, — 

I  am  on  my  way  back  to  Scotland,  after  a  three  weeks' 
gxile  in  London,  and  take  the  leisure  of  this  fine  summer 
morning  to  write  you  a  long  letter.  I  hope  you  are  sensi- 
ble of  the  compliment  I  pay  you  in  taking  this  vast  sheet 
of  paper,  which,  to  make  it  the  more  gracious,  I  have 
stolen  from  the  quire  on  which  my  host,  Sir  James  Mack- 
intosh, is  now  writing  his  history. 

I  have  been  very  much  amused  in  London,  though 
rather  too  feverishly,  so  that  it  is  deliciously  refreshing 
to  get  out  of  its  stir  and  tumult,  and  sit  down  to  recollect 
all  I  have  seen  and  heard,  amidst  the  flowers'  freshness 
and  nightingales  of  this  beautiful  country.  I  was  a  good 
deal  among  wits  and  politicians,  of  whom  you  would  not 
care  much  to  hear.  But  I  also  saw  a  good  deal  of  Miss 
Edgeworth  and  Tommy  Moore,  and  something  of  your 
countryman,  Washington  Irving,  with  whom  I  was  very 
happy  to  renew  my  acquaintance.  Moore  is  still  more 
delightful  in  society  than  he  is  in  his  writings;  the  sweet- 
est-blooded, warmest-hearted,  happiest,  hopefulest  crea- 
ture that  ever  set  fortune  at  defiance.  He  was  quite 
ruined  about  three  years  ago  by  the  treachery  of  a  deputy 


62  FRANCIS    LORD    JEFFREY         [Mt.  43 

in  a  small  office  he  held,  and  forced  to  reside  in  France. 
He  came  over  since  I  came  to  England,  to  settle  his  debts 
by  the  sacrifice  of  every  farthing  he  had  in  the  world, 
and  had  scarcely  got  to  London  when  he  found  that  the 
whole  scheme  of  settlement  had  blown  up,  and  that  he 
must  return  in  ten  days  to  his  exile.  And  yet  I  saw  no- 
body so  sociable,  kind,  and  happy;  so  resigned,  or  rather 
so  triumphant  over  fortune,  by  the  buoyancy  of  his  spirits, 
and  the  inward  light  of  his  mind.  He  told  me  a  great 
deal  about  Lord  Byron,  with  whom  he  had  lived  very 
much  abroad,  and  of  whose  heart  and  temper,  with  all 
his  partiality  to  him,  he  cannot  say  anything  very  favour- 
able. There  is  nothing  gloomy  or  bitter,  however,  in  his 
ordinary  talk,  but  rather  a  wild,  rough,  boyish  pleasantry, 
much  more  like  nature  than  his  poetry. 

Miss  Edgeworth  I  had  not  seen  for  twenty  years,  and 
found  her  very  unlike  my  recollection. 

Have  you  any  idea  what  sort  of  a  thing  a  truly  elegant 
English  woman  of  fashion  is?  I  suspect  not;  for  it  is 
not  to  be  seen  almost  out  of  England,  and  I  do  not  know 
very  well  how  to  describe  it.  Great  quietness,  simplicity, 
and  delicacy  of  manners,  with  a  certain  dignity  and  self- 
possession  that  puts  vulgarity  out  of  countenance,  and 
keeps  presumption  in  awe;  a  singularly  sweet,  soft,  and 
rather  low  voice,  with  remarkable  elegance  and  ease  of 
diction;  a  perfect  taste  in  wit  and  manners  and  conver- 
sation, but  no  loquacity,  and  rather  languid  spirits;  a 
sort  of  indolent  disdain  of  display  and  accomplishments; 
an  air  of  great  good-nature  and  kindness,  with  but  too 
often  some  heartlessness,  duplicity,  and  ambition.  These 
are  some  of  the  traits,  and  such,  I  think,  as  would  most 
strike  an  American.  You  would  think  her  rather  cold 
and  spiritless;  but  she  would  predominate  over  you  in 
the  long  run;  and  indeed  is  a  very  bewitching  and  dan- 
gerous creature,  more  seductive  and  graceful  than  any 
other  in  the  world ;  but  not  better  nor  happier ;  and  I  am 
speaking  even  of  the  very  best  and  most  perfect.  We 
have  plenty  of  loud,  foolish  things,  good  humoured,  even 
in  the  highest  society. 

Washington  Irving  is  rather  low-spirited  and  silent  in 
mixed  company,  but  is  agreeable,  I  think,  tete  a  tete,  and 
is  very  gentle  and  amiable.  He  is  a  good  deal  in  fashion, 


43]         FRANCIS   LORD   JEFFREY  63 

and  has  done  something  to  deserve  it.  I  hope  you  do  not 
look  on  him  in  America  as  having  nattered  our  old  coun- 
try improperly.  I  had  the  honour  of  dining  twice  with 
a  royal  duke,  very  jovial,  loud,  familiar,  and  facetious, 
by  no  means«foolish  or  uninstructed,  but  certainly  coarse 
and  indelicate  to  a  degree  quite  remarkable  in  the  upper 
classes  of  society.  The  most  extraordinary  man  in  Eng- 
land is  the  man  in  whose  house  I  now  am. 

I  came  down  here  yesterday  by  way  of  Haileybury, 
where  I  took  up  Malthus,  who  is  always  delightful,  and 
brought  him  here  with  me.  The  two  professors  have 
gone  over  to  the  College  to  their  lectures,  and  return  to 
dinner.  I  proceed  on  my  journey  homeward  in  the  even- 
ing. Would  you  like  to  know  what  old  England  is  like? 
and  in  what  it  most  differs  from  America?  Mostly,  I 
think,  in  the  visible  memorials  of  antiquity  with  which 
it  is  overspread;  the  superior  beauty  of  its  verdure,  and 
the  more  tasteful  and  happy  state  and  distribution  of  its 
woods.  Every  thing  around  you  here  is  historical,  and 
leads  to  romantic  or  interesting  recollections.  Gray- 
grown  church  towers,  cathedrals,  ruined  abbeys,  castles 
of  all  sizes  and  descriptions,  in  all  stages  of  decay,  from 
those  that  are  inhabited  to  those  in  whose  moats  ancient 
treee  are  growing,  and  ivy  mantling  over  their  mouldered 
fragments.  Within  sight  of  this  house,  for  instance,  there 
are  the  remains  of  the  palace  of  Hunsden,  where  Queene 
Elizabeth  passed  her  childhood,  and  Theobalds,  where 
King  James  had  his  hunting-seat,  and  the  Rye-house, 
where  Rumbold's  plot  was  laid,  and  which  is  still  occu- 
pied by  a  maltster — such  is  the  permanency  of  habits  and 
professions  in  this  ancient  country.  Then  there  are  two 
gigantic  oak  stumps,  with  a  few  fresh  branches  still,  which 
are  said  to  have  been  planted  by  Edward  the  III., 
and  massive  stone  bridges  over  lazy  waters;  and  churches 
that  look  as  old  as  Christianity;  and  beautiful  groups  of 
branchy  trees ;  and  a  verdure  like  nothing  else  in  the  uni- 
verse; and  all  the  cottages  and  lawns  fragrant  with  sweet- 
brier  and  violets,  and  glowing  with  purple  lilacs  and  white 
elders;  and  antique  villages  scattering  round  wide  bright 
greens;  with  old  trees  and  ponds,  an.d  a  massive  pair  of 
oaken  stocks  preserved  from  the  days  of  Alfred.  With 
you  everything  is  new,  and  glaring,  and  angular,  and 


64  FRANCIS   LORD   JEFFREY         [Mt.  70 

withal  rather  frail,  slight,  and  perishable;  nothing  soft, 
and  mellow,  and  venerable,  or  that  looks  as  if  it  would 
ever  become  so.  I  will  not  tell  you  about  Scotland  after 
this.  It  has  not  these  characters  of  ancient  wealth  and 
population,  but  beauties  of  another  kind,  which  you 
must  come  and  see. 


70] 

To  CHARLES  DICKENS 
[A  "MISCHIEVOUS  ONSLAUGHT"] 

EDINBURGH,  26th  December,  1843. 

Blessings  on  your  kind  heart,  my  dear  Dickens!  and 
may  it  always  be  as  light  and  full  as  it  is  kind,  and  a 
fountain  of  kindness  to  all  within  reach  of  its  beatings! 
We  are  all  charmed  with  your  Carol;  chiefly,  I  think,  for 
the  genuine  goodness  which  breathes  all  through  it,  and 
is  the  true  inspiring  angel  by  which  its  genius  has  been 
awakened.  The  whole  scene  of  the  Cratchetts  is  like  the 
dream  of  a  beneficent  angel  in  spite  of  its  broad  reality; 
and  little  Tiny  Tim,  in  life  and  death  almost  as  sweet 
and  as  touching  as  Nelly.  And  then  the  school-day  scene, 
with  that  large-hearted,  delicate  sister,  and  her  true  in- 
lieritor,  with  his  gall-lacking  liver,  and  milk  of  human 
kindness  for  blood,  and  yet  all  so  natural  and  so  humbly 
and  serenely  happy!  Well,  you  should  be  happy  your- 
self, for  you  may  be  sure  you  have  done  more  good,  and 
not  only  fastened  more  kindly  feelings,  but  prompted 
more  positive  acts  of  beneficence,  by  this  little  publica- 
tion, than  can  be  traced  to  all  the  pulpits  and  confession- 
als in  Christendom,  since  Christmas  1842. 

And  is  not  this  better  than  caricaturing  American 
knaveries,  or  lavishing  your  great  gifts  of  fancy  and  ob- 
servation on  Pecksniffs,  Dodgers,  Bailleys,  and  Moulds. 
Nor  is  this  a  mere  crotchet  of  mine,  for  nine-tenths  of 
your  readers,  I  am  convinced,  are  of  the  same  opinion; 
and,  accordingly,  I  prophesy  that  you  will  sell  three  times 
as  many  of  this  moral  and  pathetic  Carol  as  of  your 
grotesque  and  fantastical  Chuzzlewits. 

I  hope  you  have  not  fancied  that  I  think  less  frequently 
of  you,  or  love  you  less,  because  I  have  not  lately  written 


Mt.  73]         FRANCIS   LOKD   JEFFKEY  65 

to  you.  Indeed,  it  is  not  so;  but  I  have  been  poorly  in 
health  for  the  last  five  months,  and  advancing  age  makes 
me  lazy  and,  perhaps,  forgetful.  But  I  do  not  forget  my 
benefactors,  and  I  owe  too  much  to  you  not  to  have  you 
constantly  in  my  thoughts.  I  scarcely  know  a  single  in- 
dividual to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  so  much  pleasure, 
and  the  means,  at  least,  of  being  made  better.  I  wish 
you  had  not  made  such  an  onslaught  on  the  Americans. 
Even  if  it  were  all  merited,  it  does  mischief,  and  no  good. 
Besides,  you  know  that  there  are  many  exceptions;  and, 
if  ten  righteous  might  have  saved  a  city  once,  there  are 
surely  innocent  and  amiable  men  and  women,  and  be- 
sides boys  and  girls,  enough  in  that  vast  region  to  arrest 
the  proscription  of  a  nation.  I  cannot  but  hope,  there- 
fore, that  you  will  relent,  before  you  have  done  with  them, 
and  contrast  your  deep  shadings  with  some  redeeming 
touches.  God  bless  you.  I  must  not  say  more  to-day. 
With  most  kind  love  to  Mrs.  Dickens,  always  very  affec- 
tionately yours,  &c. 

Since  writing  this  in  the  morning,  and  just  as  I  was 
going  to  seal  it^  in  comes  another  copy  of  the  Carol,  with 
a  nattering  autograph  on  the  blank  page,  and  an  address 
in  your  own  "fine  Roman  hand."  I  thank  you  with  all 
my  heart  for  this  proof  of  your  remembrance,  and  am 
pleased  to  think  that,  while  I  was  so  occupied  about  you, 
you  had  not  been  forgetful  of  me.  Heaven  bless  you,  and 
all  that  are  dear  to  you. — Ever  yours,  &c. 


73] 

To  MRS.  EMPSON 

["A  WORLD  TO  BE  LOVED*'] 

CRAIGCROOK,  Sunday,  23d  May,  1847. 
Bless  you  ever!  and  this  is  my  first  right  earnest,  tran- 
quil, Sunday  blessing,  since  my  return;  for,  the  day  after 
my  arrival,  I  was  in  a  worry  with  heaps  of  unanswered 
letters  and  neglected  arrangements.  But  to-day  I  have 
got  back  to  my  old  Sabbath  feeling  of  peace,  love,  and 
seclusion.  Granny  has  gone  to  church,  and  the  babes 
and  doggies  are  out  walking;  and  I  have  paced  leisurely 
round  my  garden,  to  the  songs  of  hundreds  of  hymning 


66  FEANCIS   LORD    JEFFREY         [>Et.  73 

blackbirds  and  thrushes,  and  stepped  stately  along  my 
terrace,  among  the  bleaters  in  the  lawn  below,  and  pos- 
sessed my  heart  in  quietness,  and  felt  that  there  was 
sweetness  in  solitude,  and  that  the  world,  whether  to  be 
left,  or  to  be  yet  awhile  lived  in,  is  a  world  to  be  loved, 
and  only  to  be  enjoyed  by  those  who  find  objects  of  love 
in  it.  And  this  is  the  sum  of  the  matter;  and  the  first 
and  last  and  only  enduring  condition  of  all  good  people, 
when  their  fits  of  vanity  and  ambition  are  off  them,  or 
finally  sinking  to  repose.  Well,  but  here  has  been  Tarley, 
come,  of  her  own  sweet  will,  to  tell  me,  with  a  blush  and 
a  smile,  and  ever  so  little  of  a  stammer,  that  she  would 
like  if  I  would  walk  with  her;  and  we  have  been  walk- 
ing, hand  in  hand,  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  quarry, 
where  the  water  is  growing,  though  slowly,  and  up  to  the 
Keith's  sweetbriar  alley,  very  sweet  and  resonant  with 
music  of  birds,  and  rich  with  cowslips  and  orchis;  and 
over  the  style  back  to  our  domains ;  and  been  sitting  in 
the  warm  corner  by  the  gardener's  house,  and  taking 
cognizance  of  the  promise  of  gooseberries  and  currants, 
of  which  we  are  to  have  pies,  I  think,  next  week;  and 
gazing  at  the  glorious  brightness  of  the  gentians,  and 
the  rival  brightness  of  the  peacock's  neck;  and  discours- 
ing of  lambs  and  children,  and  goodness,  and  happiness, 
and  their  elements  and  connections.  Less  discussion, 
though,  than  usual,  in  our  Sunday  Tusculans,  and  more 
simple  chat,  as  from  one  friend  to  another.  And  now 
she  has  gone  to  sharpen  her  teeth  for  dinner,  and  tell  as 
much  as  she  likes  of  our  disceptations ;  and  I  come  back 
to  my  letter.  We  met  the  boy  and  Ali  early  in  our  ramble, 
and  he  took  my  other  hand  for- a  while;  but  Ali  would 
not  trust  him  in  the  quarry,  and  so  we  parted — on  the 
brink  of  perdition — and  he  roared  lustily  at  sight  of  our 
peril.  You  beat  us  terribly  as  to  weather  still;  for  last 
night  was  positively  cold  with  us,  ther.  at  midnight  down 
to  44,  and  a  keen,  clear,  sharp-looking  sky.  To-day  it  has 
not  yet  been  above  50,  and  there  are  but  scanty  sun- 
gleams.  All  which  forbodes,  if  it  does  not  ensure,  a  late 
harvest,  which  will  this  year  be  as  great  a  calamity  as  a 
scanty  one,  which  it  is  likely  enough  to  be  also.  I  fear 
the  most  of  the  mortality  from  famine;  and  pestilence 
is  still  to  come  even  for  this  year;  and  it  is  too  painful 


m.  33]  EGBERT    SOUTHEY  67 

to  think  of.  I  persist  in  my  early  rising,  and  am  down 
at  breakfast  every  morning  at  9l/2',  so  that  you  had 
better  be  putting  yourselves  in  training,  if  you  mean,  as 
I  hope  you  do,  to  join  with  me  in  the  rites  of  that  na- 
tional meal.  I  rather  think,  too,  that  I  am  better  than 
my  average  at  Shanklin;  though  I  do  not  ascribe  this 
either  to  those  virtuous  exertions,  or  the  sanitary  influ- 
ence of  my  court  work,  and  should  be  at  a  loss,  indeed, 
to  point  out  any  specific  amendment 


[^Et.33]  ROBEKT   SOUTHEY 

1774-1843 

To  JOSEPH  COTTLE 

[A  "DEAR  OLD  FRIEND  AND  BENEFACTOR"] 

GRETA  HALL,  April  20,  1808. 
My  dear  Cottle, 

On  opening  a  box  to-day,  the  contents  of  which  I  had 
not  seen  since  the  winter  of  1799,  your  picture  made  its 
appearance.  Of  all  Robert  Hancock's  performances  it  is 
infinitely  the  best.  I  cannot  conceive  a  happier  likeness. 
I  have  been  thinking  of  you  and  of  old  times  ever  since 
it  came  to  light.  I  have  been  reading  your  Fall  of  Cam- 
bria, and  in  the  little  interval  that  remains  before  supper 
must  talk  to  you  in  reply  to  your  letter. 

What  you  say  of  my  copyrights  affected  me  very  much. 
Dear  Cottle,  set  your  heart  at  rest  on  that  subject.  It 
ought  to  be  at  rest.  These  were  yours,  fairly  bought,  and 
fairly  sold.  You  bought  them  on  the  chance  of  their 
success,  which  no  London  book-seller  would  have  done; 
and  had  they  not  been  bought,  they  could  not  have  been 
published  at  all.  Nay,  if  you  had  not  purchased  Joan  of 
Arc,  the  poem  never  would  have  existed,  nor  should  I,  in 
all  probability,  ever  have  obtained  that  reputation  which 
is  the  capital  on  which  I  subsist,  nor  that  power  which 
enables  me  to  support  it. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Do  you  suppose,  Cottle,  that  I  have 
forgotten  those  true  and  most  essential  acts  of  friendship 
which  you  showed  me  when  I  stood  most  in  need  of  them  ? 
Your  house  was  my  house  when  I  had  no  other.  The  very 
money  with  which  I  bought  my  wedding-ring  and  paid 


68  EGBERT    SOUTHEY  [Mt.  45 

my  marriage  fees,  was  supplied  by  you.  It  was  with  your 
sisters  I  left  Edith  during  my  six  months'  absence,  and 
for  the  six  months  after  my  return  it  was  from  you  that 
I  received,  week  by  week,  the  little  on  which  we  lived, 
till  I  was  enabled  to  live  by  other  means.  It  is  not  the 
settling  of  a  cash  account  that  can  cancel  obligations 
like  these.  You  are  in  the  habit  of  preserving  your  let- 
ters, and  if  you  were  not,  I  would  entreat  you  to  preserve 
thiSf  that  it  might  be  seen  hereafter.  Sure  I  am,  there 
never  was  a  more  generous  or  a  kinder  heart  than  yours; 
and  you  will  believe  me  when  I  add,  that  there  does  not 
live  that  man  upon  earth  whom  I  remember  with  more 
gratitude  and  more  affection.  My  head  throbs  and  my 
eyes  burn  with  these  recollections.  Good  night!  my  dear 
old  friend  and  benefactor. 

R.  S. 


.  45] 

To  BERTHA,  KATE,  AND  ISABEL  SOUTHEY 
[ON  BEING  "ELL-ELL-DEED"] 

June  26,  1820. 

Bertha,  Kate,  and  Isabel,  you  have  been  very  good 
girls,  and  have  written  me  very  nice  letters,  with  which 
I  was  much  pleased.  This  is  the  last  letter  which  I  can 
write  in  return;  and  as  I  happen  to  have  a  quiet  hour  to 
myself,  here  at  Streatham,  on  Monday  noon,  I  will  em- 
ploy that  hour  in  relating  to  you  the  whole  history  and 
manner  of  my  being  ell-ell-deed  at  Oxford  by  the  Vice- 
Chancellor. 

You  must  know,  then,  that  because  I  had  written  a 
great  many  good  books,  and  more  especially  the  Life  of 
Wesley,  it  was  made  known  to  me  by  the  Vice-Chancellor, 
through  Mr.  Heber,  that  the  University  of  Oxford  were 
desirous  of  showing  me  the  only  mark  of  honour  in  their 
power  to  bestow,  which  was  that  of  making  me  an  LL.D., 
that  is  to  say,  a  doctor  of  laws. 

Now,  you  are  to  know  that  some  persons  are  ell-ell-deed 
every  year  at  Oxford,  at  the  great  annual  meeting  which 
is  called  the  Commemoration.  There  are  two  reasons  for 
this;  first,  that  the  university  may  do  itself  honour,  by 
bringing  persons  of  distinction  to  receive  the  degree  pub- 


Mt.  45]  EGBERT    SOUTHEY  69 

licly  as  a  mark  of  honour;  and,  secondly,  that  certain 
persons  in  inferior  offices  may  share  in  the  fees  paid  by 
those  upon  whom  the  ceremony  of  ell-ell-deeing  is  per- 
formed. For  the  first  of  these  reasons  the  Emperor  Alex- 
ander was  made  a  Doctor  of  Laws  at  Oxford,  the  King  of 
Prussia,  and  old  Blucher,  and  Platoff.  And  for  the  sec- 
ond, the  same  degree  is  conferred  upon  noblemen,  and 
persons  of  fortune  and  consideration  who  are  any  ways 
connected  with  the  university,  or  city,  or  county  of 
Oxford. 

The  ceremony  of  ell-ell-deeing  is  performed  in  a  large 
circular  building  called  the  theatre,  of  which  I  will  show 
you  a  print  when  I  return,  and  this  theatre  is  filled  with 
people.  The  undergraduates  (that  is,  the  young  men  who 
are  called  Cathedrals  at  Keswick)  entirely  fill  the  gallery. 
Under  the  gallery  there  are  seats,  which  are  filled  with 
ladies  in  full  dress,  separated  from  the  gentlemen.  Be- 
tween these  two  divisions  of  the  ladies  are  seats  for  the 
heads  of  houses,  and  the  doctors  of  law,  physic,  and 
divinity.  In  the  middle  of  these  seats  is  the  Vice-Chan- 
cellor, opposite  the  entrance  which  is  under  the  orchestra. 
On  the  right  and  left  are  two  kind  of  pulpits,  from  which 
the  prize  essays  and  poems  are  recited.  The  area,  or 
middle  of  the  theatre,  is  filled  with  bachelors  and  masters 
of  arts,  and  with  as  many  strangers  as  can  obtain  ad- 
mission. Before  the  steps  which  lead  up  to  the  seats  of 
the  doctors,  and  directly  in  front  of  the  Vice-Chancellor, 
a  wooden  bar  is  let  down,  covered  with  red  cloth,  and  on 
each  side  of  this  the  beadles  stand  in  their  robes. 

When  the  theatre  is  full,  the  Vice-Chancellor,  and  the 
heads  of  houses,  and  the  doctors  enter:  those  persons  who 
are  to  be  ell-ell-deed  remain  without  in  the  divinity 
schools,  in  their  robes,  till  the  convocation  have  signified 
their  assent  to  the  ell-ell-deeing,  and  then  they  are  led 
into  the  theatre,  one  after  another  in  a  line,  into  the 
middle  of  the  area,  the  people  just  making  a  lane  for 
them.  The  professor  of  civil  law,  Dr.  Phillimore,  went 
before,  and  made  a  long  speech  in  Latin,  telling  the  Vice- 
Chancellor  and  the  dignissimi  doctores  what  excellent 
persons  we  were  who  were  now  to  be  ell-ell-deed.  Then 
he  took  us  one  by  one  .by  the  hand,  and  presented  each, 
in  his  turn,  pronouncing  his  name  aloud,  saying  who  and 


70  EOBEET    SOUTHEY  [^Et.  61 

what  he  was,  and  calling  him  many  laudatory  names 
ending  in  issimus.  The  audience  then  cheered  loudly  to 
show  their  approbation  of  the  person ;  the  Vice-Chancellor 
stood  up,  and  repeating  the  first  words  in  issime,  ell-ell- 
deed  him ;  the  beadles  lifted  up  the  bar  of  separation,  and 
the  new-made  doctor  went  up  the  steps  and  took  his  seat 
among  the  dignissimi  doctores. 

Oh  Bertha,  Kate,  and  Isabel,  if  you  had  seen  me  that 
day!  I  was  like  other  issimis,  dressed  in  a  great  robe  of 
the  finest  scarlet  cloth,  with  sleeves  of  rose-coloured  silk, 
and  I  had  in  my  hand  a  black  velvet  cap  like  a  beef- 
eater, for  the  use  of  which  dress  I  paid  one  guinea  for 
that  day.  Dr.  Phillimore,  who  was  an  old  school-fellow 
of  mine,  and  a  very  good  man,  took  me  by  the  hand  in 
my  turn,  and  presented  me ;  upon  which  there  was  a  great 
clapping  of  hands  and  huzzaing  at  my  name.  When  that 
was  over,  the  Vice-Chancellor  stood  up,  and  said  these 
words  whereby  I  was  ell-ell-deed: — "Doctissime  et  orna- 
tissime  vir,  ego,  pro  auctoritate  mea  et  totius  universitatis 
hujus,  admitto  te  ad  gradum  doctoris  in  jure  civili,  honoris 
causa."  These  were  the  words  which  ell-ell-deed  me;  and 
then  the  bar  was  lifted  up,  and  I  seated  myself  among 
the  doctors. 

Little  girls,  you  know  it  might  be  proper  for  me,  now, 
to  wear  a  large  wig,  and  to  be  called  Doctor  Southey, 
and  to  become  very  severe,  and  leave  off  being  a  comical 
papa.  And  if  you  should  find  that  ell-ell-deeing  has  made 
this  difference  in  me  you  will  not  be  surprised.  However, 
I  shall  not  come  down  in  a  wig,  neither  shall  I  wear  my 
robes  at  home. 

God  bless  you  all! 

Your  affectionate  Father, 

K.  SOUTHEY. 
[Mt.  61] 

To  EDWARD  MOXON 
[RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB] 

KESWICK,  Feb.  2,  1836. 
My  dear  Sir, — 

I  have  been  too  closely  engaged  in  clearing  off  the 
second  volume  of  Cowper  to  reply  to  your  inquiries  con- 
cerning poor  Lamb  sooner.  His  acquaintance  with  Cole- 


Mt.  61]  EOBEKT    SOUTHEY  71 

ridge  began  at  Christ's  Hospital;  Lamb  was  some  two 
years,  I  think,  his  junior.  Whether  he  was  ever  one  of 
the  Grecians  there,  might  be  ascertained,  I  suppose,  by 
inquiring.  My  own  impression  is,  that  he  was  not.  Cole- 
ridge introduced  me  to  him  in  the  winter  of  1794-5,  and 
to  George  Dyer  also,  from  whom,  if  his  memory  has  not 
failed,  you  might  probably  learn  more  of  Lamb's  early 
history  than  from  any  other  person.  Lloyd,  Wordsworth, 
and  Hazlitt  became  known  to  him  through  their  connec- 
tion with  Coleridge. 

When  I  saw  the  family  (one  evening  only,  and  at  that 
time),  they  were  lodging  somewhere  near  Lincoln's  Inn, 
on  the  western  side  (I  forget  the  street),  and  were  evi- 
dently in  uncomfortable  circumstances.  The  father  and 
mother  were  both  living ;  and  I  have  some  dim  recollection 
of  the  latter's  invalid  appearance.  The  father's  senses 
had  failed  him  before  that  time.  He  published  some 
poems  in  quarto.  Lamb  showed  me  once  an  imperfect 
copy:  the  Sparrow's  Wedding  was  the  title  of  the  longest 
piece,  and  this  was  the  author's  favourite;  he  liked,  in 
his  dotage,  to  hear  Charles  read  it. 

His  most  familiar  friend,  when  I  first  saw  him,  was 
White,  who  held  some  office  at  Christ's  Hospital,  and  con- 
tinued intimate  with  him  as  long  as  he  lived.  You  know 
what  Elia  says  of  him.  He  and  Lamb  were  joint  authors 
)f  the  Original  Letters  of  Falstaff.  Lamb,  I  believe,  first 
ippeared  as  an  author  in  the  second  edition  of  Coleridge's 
Poems  (Bristol,  1797),  and,  secondly,  in  the  little  volume 
)f  blank  verse  with  Lloyd  (1798).  Lamb,  Lloyd,  and 
vVTrite  were  inseparable  in  1798;  the  two  latter  at  one 
;ime  lodged  together,  though  no  two  men  could  be  im- 
igined  more  unlike  each  other.  Lloyd  had  no  drollery 
n  his  nature;  White  seemed  to  have  nothing  else.  You 
vill  easily  understand  how  Lamb  could  sympathise  with 
toth. 

Lloyd,  who  used  to  form  sudden  friendships,  was  all 
nit  a  stranger  to  me,  when  unexpectedly  he  brought  Lamb 
lown  to  visit  me  at  a  little  village  (Burton)  near  Christ 
)hurch,  in  Hampshire,  where  I  was  lodging  in  a  very 
lumble  cottage.  This  was  in  the  summer  of  1797,  and 
hen,  or  in  the  following  year,  my  correspondence  with 
jamb  began.  I  saw  more  of  him  in  1802  than  at  any 


72  KOBEKT    SOUTHEY  [Mt.  61 

other  time,  for  I  was  then  six  months  resident  in  London. 
His  visit  to  this  country  was  before  I  came  to  it;  it 
must  have  been  either  in  that  or  the  following  year:  it 
was  to  Lloyd  and  to  Coleridge. 

I  had  forgotten  one  of  his  school-fellows,  who  is  still 
living — C.  V.  Le  Grice,  a  clergyman  at  or  near  Penzance. 
From  him  you  might  learn  something  of  his  boyhood. 

Cottle  has  a  good  likeness  of  Lamb,  in  chalk,  taken  by 
an  artist  named  Robert  Hancock,  about  the  year  1798. 
It  looks  older  than  Lamb  was  at  that  time;  but  he  was 
old-looking. 

Coleridge  introduced  him  to  Godwin,  shortly  after  the 
first  number  of  the  Anti-Jacobin  Magazine  and  Review 
was  published,  with  a  caricature  of  Gillray's,  in  which 
Coleridge  and  I  were  introduced  with  asses's  heads,  and 
Lloyd  and  Lamb  as  toad  and  frog.  Lamb  got  warmed 
with  whatever  was  on  the  table,  became  disputatious,  and 
said  things  to  Godwin  which  made  him  quietly  say,  "Pray, 
Mr.  Lamb,  are  you  toad  or  frog?"  Mrs.  Coleridge  will 
remember  the  scene,  which  was  to  her  sufficiently  uncom- 
fortable. But  the  next  morning  S.T.C.  called  on  Lamb, 
and  found  Godwin  breakfasting  with  him,  from  which 
time  their  intimacy  began. 

His  angry  letter  to  me  in  the  Magazine  arose  out  of  a 
notion    that    an    expression    of    mine    in    the    Quarterly 
Review  would  hurt  the  sale  of  Elia;  some  one,  no  doubt, 
had  said  that  it  would.     I  meant  to  serve  the  book,  and 
very  well  remember  how  the  offence  happened.     I  had 
written  that   it  wanted  nothing  to   render   it   altogether 
delightful  but  a  saner  religious  feeling.    This  would  have 
been  the  proper  word  if  any  other  person  had  written  the 
book.     Feeling  its  extreme  unfitness   as  soon  as   it  wa 
written,  I  altered  it  immediately  for  the  first  word  whicl 
came  into  my  head,  intending  to  re-model  the  sentenc 
when  it  should  come  to  me  in  the  proof;  and  that  proo 
never  came.     There  can  be  no  objection  to  your  printing 
all  that  passed  upon  the  occasion,   beginning  with  the 
passage  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  and  giving  his  letter. 

I  have  heard  Coleridge  say  that,  in  a  fit  of  derange 
ment,  Lamb  fancied  himself  to  be  young  Norval.  He  tol< 
me  this  in  relation  to  one  of  his  poems. 

If  you  print  my  lines  to  him  upon  his  Album  Verses 


Mt.  64]       WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR  73 

I  will  send  you  a  corrected  copy.  You  received  his  letters, 
I  trust,  which  Cuthbert  took  with  him  to  town  in  Octo- 
ber. I  wish  they  had  been  more,  and  wish,  also,  that  I 
had  more  to  tell  you  concerning  him,  and  what  I  have 
told  were  of  more  value.  But  it  is  from  such  fragments 
of  recollection,  and  such  imperfect  notices,  that  the  mate- 
rials for  biography  must,  for  the  most  part,  be  collected. 

Yours  very  truly, 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


[^Et.64]       WALTER    SAVAGE   LANDOR 

1775-1864 

To  Miss  ROSE  PAYNTER 
[A  DOG  WITH  PLUCK] 

[BATH,  September  23,   1839.] 
Dear  Rose, — 

It  is  true  enough  that  you  have  not  heard  from  me  for 
a  long  time;  and  the  reason  is  not  that  I  am  idle, 'which 
I  am,  but  because  I  hoped,  from  the  long  absence  of  all 
letters  from  Passy,  that  you  surely  were  on  your  way  to 
Bath.  Otherwise  not  only  should  I  have  written,  but 
have  been,  long  ere  this  time,  in  Devonshire.  Tell  Mama 
that  I  might  safely  have  been  entrusted  with  the  tapis,  or, 
even  with  everything  sur  le  tapis.  There  is  no  commis- 
sion of  hers  which  I  would  not  have  executed,  at  least 
carefully.  I  am  indeed  quite  as  id^e  as  usual. 

I  never  sprain, 

Dear  Rose!   my  brain; 

And  if  I  did, 

The  Lord  forbid 
That  you  should  set  it  strait  again: 

For  I  have  seen, 

O  haughty  Queen! 

The  tears  and  sighs 

That  fall  and  rise 
Where  your  ungentle  hand  hath  been. 

No  wonder  you  ask  me  whether  you  are  not  most 
>arbarous:  I  will  answer  for  it  you  are.  I  scarcely  know 
any  man  but  myself  who  is  out  of  your  martyrology.  I 


74       WALTEE  SAVAGE  LANDOR   [^Et.  64 

am  like  one  of  the  Saints  (no  doubt  of  that — you  will 
say)  I  mean  I  am  like  one  of  those  who  look  quietly  on 
and  take  delight  in  seeing  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
Creation  execute  the  Creator's  will.  But  I  do  not  approve 
of  your  making  more  people  mad  and  desperate. 

By  the  by,  I  met  Sir  Dudley  Hill  in  town.  He  told  me 
the  wonderful  news  that  a  relation  of  his  (the  name  too 
great  to  be  communicated  to  me)  was  an  admirer  of 
yours.  Never  say,  after  this,  that  we  acquire  but  little 
information  in  the  great  world.  Speaking  of  Bath,  you 
say — "for  the  short  time  we  shall  remain  there."  This 
disquiets  me.  Is  it  not  too  much  to  lose  one  of  your 
family?  But  there  is  good  cause  shown;  and  when  the 
same  good  cause  is  shown  again,  we  must  submit — more 
than  submit — give  up  one  half  of  the  heart  to  gladness, 
while  the  other  half  is  devoured  by  grief. 

If  your  family  is  really  to  continue  but  a  little  while 
in  Bath  pray  let  me  know  it.  I  have  not  been  very 
importunate  in  my  entreaties  to  hear  often  from  you; 
for  the  pleasures  of  those  I  love  have  always  been  and 
always  will  be  the  highest  of  my  gratifications;  and  I 
do  not  ask  you  now  to  shorten  a  ride  or  a  walk  or  a 
conversation,  but,  at  any  moment,  when  you  really  have 
nothing  else  to  do  or  to  think  about,  tell  me  if  my  delight- 
ful evenings  in  Gt.  Bedford  Street  are  soon  to  close.  I 
sadly  fear  your  wishes  in  regard  to  the  picture  are  ex- 
pressed too  late.  But  I  will  write  by  this  very  post  and 
signify  them.  The  "Book  of  Beauty"  is  always  sent  to 
America  by  the  first  of  October.  To-morrow  I  will  set  out 
for  Torquay,  and  return  by  the  middle  of  the  next  month. 

If  Mrs.  Paynter  thinks  I  can  do  anything  in  the  deco- 
ration of  her  house,  better  than  the  servant,  I  will  return 
sooner  and  try  my  hand  at  it.  Your  account  of  Sophy 
has  removed  from  me  a  heavy  load  of  anxiety.  That 
horrible  pleurisy  frightened  me.  I  can  bear  pain  passa- 
bly well  myself:  it  is  only  when  it  rebounds  from  my 
friends  that  I  have  not  the  courage  to  face  it.  You 
would  have  laught  at  me  the  other  day  when  a  lady 
was  my  protectress.  I  was  over  at  Marston  to  see  the 
Boyles  when  (tell  the  Admiral  if  he  is  with  you)  I  deliv- 
ered his  message  to  Sir  Courtney.  In  the  courtyard  was 
a  magnificent  black  Newfoundland  dog.  No  sooner  I  had 


68]   WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR       Y5 

entered  the  gate  than,  before  I  could  deliver  my  creden- 
tials, or  make  the  sign  of  dog-freemasonry,  he  seized  my 
leg.  A  swinging  box  on  the  ear  was  opposed  to  this 
manoeuvre. .  My  Newfoundlander  had  what  the  boxers  (not 
very  elegantly)  call  pluck.  He  renewed  the  attack,  de- 
spite some  severe  appellations  and  admirable  parasol- 
thrusts  of  Miss  Boyle.  However  she  conquered  him — 
for  neither  my  box  on  the  ear  nor  a  kick  at  the  second 
round,  which  sent  him  upon  his  back,  made  him  give  in. 
We  were  pretty  good  friends  at  last,  although  I  told  him 
I  should  trouble  him,  at  his  leisure,  just  to  look  over  a 
certain  article  in  my  tailor's  bill,  which  might  as  well 
be  transferred  to  his  account.  Fred  will  think  this  rare 
fun — for  several  minutes  it  was  rather  serious.  I  would 
have  declined  the  combat  and  have  left  my  enemy  alone 
with  his  glory  had  there  been  any  escape. 
Believe  me,  dear  Rose, 

Yours  very  affectionately, 

W.  S.  LANDOR. 
[Mi.  68] 

To  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  EXAMINER" 
[A  "POLYGONAL  CHARACTER"] 

August  17,  1843. 
Sir,— 

The  prosecution  with  which  you  are  threatened  by 
Lord  Brougham  might  well  be  expected  from  every  f acette 
of  his  polygonal  character.  He  began  his  literary  and 
political  life  with  a  scanty  store  of  many  small  commodi- 
ties. Long  after  he  set  out,  the  witty  and  wise  Lord 
Stowell  said  of  him,  that  he  wanted  only  a  little  law  to 
fill  up  the  vacancy.  His  shoulders  were  not  over-burdened 
by  the  well-padded  pack  he  bore  on  them;  and  he  found 
a  ready  sale,  where  such  articles  find  the  readiest,  in 
the  town  of  Edinburgh.  Here  he  entered  into  a  confed- 
eracy (the  word  conspiracy  may  be  libellous)  to  defend 
the  worst  atrocities  of  the  French,  and  to  cry  down  every 
author  to  whom  England  was  dear  and  venerable.  A 
better  spirit  now  prevails  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  from 
the  generosity  and  genius  of  Macaulay.  But  in  the  days 
when  Brougham  and  his  confederates  were  writers  in  it, 
more  falsehood  and  more  malignity  marked  its  pages  than 


76  WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR       |>Et.  68 

any  other  Journal  in  the  language.  And  here  is  the 
man  who  cries  out  he  is  wounded !  the  recreant  who, 
screaming  for  help,  aims  a  poisoned  dagger  at  the  vigor- 
ous breast  that  crushes  him  to  the  ground. 

Had  he  no  respect  for  the  tenets  by  which  he  made  his 
fortune?  Has  he  none  for  a  superiority  of  intellectual 
power  which  leaves  to  him  superiority  of  station?  This 
eminently  bad  writer  and  reasoner  brings  an  action  for 
slander  on  many  counts,  at  the  summit  of  which  is  "be- 
cause it  is  despicable"  Now  did  ever  man  or  cat  fly  at 
the  eyes  for  a  thing  beneath  his  notice:  and  such  is  the 
meaning  of  despicable  among  us  who  have  learnt  Latin 
and  who  write  English.  What  other  man  within  the  walls 
of  Parliament,  however  hasty,  rude,  and  petulant,  hath 
exhibited  such  manifold  instances  of  bad  manners,  bad 
feelings,  bad  reasonings,  bad  language,  and  bad  law? 
They  -who  cannot  be  what  they  want  to  be,  resolve  on 
notoriety  in  any  shape  whatever.  Each  House  exhibits  a 
specimen  of  this  genus,  pinned  to  the  last  pages  of  its 
Journals.  Such  notoriety  can  in  no  manner  be  more 
readily  attained  than  by  suddenly  turning  round  on  one 
leg,  showing  how  agile  is  old  age  in  this  step,  and  then 
appealing  to  you  whether  the  Terpsichoris  has  ever 
changed  countenance  or  colour,  from  youth  upwards. 
Meanwhile  the  toothless  jaws  are  dropping,  on  both  sides, 
the  slaver  of  wrath  and  dotage. 

How  many  things  are  published  with  impunity  which 
are  more  injurious  to  a  man's  character,  more  detrimental 
to  his  fortune  and  interest,  than  a  great  proportion  of 
those  which  the  law  calls  libellous!  Suppose  an  author, 
who  has  devoted  his  whole  life  to  some  particular  study, 
writes  a  book  upon  it;  suppose  it  is  in  any  manner  dis- 
pleasing to  Lord  Brougham,  whether  on  its  own  account 
or  the  author's;  would  he  hesitate,  has  he  ever  hesitated, 
to  inflict  an  irremediable  wound?  Dexterity  in  mis- 
chief is  applauded;  the  sufferer  is  derided.  Easily  may 
a  weaker,  who  watches  the  opportunity,  trip  up  a  stronger. 
Similar  feats  are  the  peculiar  gratification  of  coarse  and 
vulgar  minds.  Has  no  virtuous  man  of  genius  bled  to 
death  under  the  scourge  of  such  a  critic  as  Brougham? 
Years  of  application,  if  years  were  yet  allowed  him, 
would  be  insufficient  to  place  him  in  the  festive  seat, 


JEt.  68]   WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR       77 

which  a  crueller  hand  than  a  murderer's  made  vacant. 
On  the  contrary,  the  accusations  brought  against  Lord 
Brougham,  by  the  Examiner,  could  be  shown  by  his 
Lordship  to  be  true  or  false  within  a  single  hour,  and 
the  fact  be  rendered  apparent  to  the  whole  nation  before 
nightfall.  But  here  no  vindictive  spirit  can  exert  its 
agency:  no  lightning  of  phosphorous  runs  along  the 
benches  of  the  Lords;  no  thunder  as  awful  shakes  the 
woolsack. 

Wavering  as  he  is  by  habit,  malicious  as  he  is  by  na- 
ture, it  is  evident  that  Lord  Brougham  says  and  does  the 
greater  part  of  his  sayings  and  doings  for  no  other  pur- 
pose than  to  display  his  ability  in  defending  them.  He 
dazzles  us  by  no  lights  of  eloquence,  he  attracts  us  by 
not  even  a  fictitious  flue-warmth;  but  he  perplexes  and 
makes  us  stare  and  stumble  by  his  angular  intricacies 
and  sudden  glares.  Not  a  sentence  of  his  speeches  or 
writings  will  be  deposited  in  the  memory  as  rich  or  rare; 
and  even  what  is  strange  will  be  cast  out  of  it  for  what 
is  stranger,  until  this  goes  too.  Is  there  a  housewife 
who  keeps  a  cupboardful  of  cups  without  handle  or 
bottom;  a  selection  of  brokages  and  flaws? 

I  am,  Sir,  &c., 

W.  S.  LANDOR. 
[  JSt.  68] 

To  Miss  ROSE  PAYNTER 
["EVEN  THE  OLD  ONES  DO  NOT  DREAM  OF  DEATH"] 

BATH,  September  21st,  [1843]. 
Dear  Rose, — 

...  It  delights  me  to  know  that  you  have  been  so  well 
amused  in  Lancashire.  You  did  right  in  not  killing  the 
grouse.  Let  men  do  these  things  if  they  will.  Perhaps 
there  is  no  harm  in  it — perhaps  it  makes  them  no  crueller 
than  they  would  be  otherwise.  But  it  is  hard  to  take 
away  what  we  cannot  give-— and  life  is  a  pleasant  thing — 
at  least  to  birds.  No  doubt  the  young  ones  say  tender 
things  to  one  another,  and  even  the  old  ones  do  not  dream 
of  death.  Talking  of  old  ones,  I  come  naturally  to  say 
a  little  of  myself.  I  am  an  absolute  cripple  with  the 
rheumatism.  Perhaps  a  gallop  round  Doncaster  race- 
course would  do  me  good,  but  I  do.ubt  my  elasticity  in 


78  CHARLES   LAMB  [JEt.  24 

springing  to  the  saddle.    I  thought  old  age  a  fable  until 
now :  I  now  find  it  a  serious  and  sad  calamity. 

It  is  no  wonder  to  me  that  you  were  enchanted  with 
York  Cathedral.  Whatever  is  excellent  raises  your  ad- 
miration and  enthusiasm.  In  how  deplorable  a  state  was 
architecture  throughout  the  whole  of  Europe,  until  these 
last  thirty  years,  ever  since  the  death  of  Wren.  And  he 
undervalued  and  misunderstood  the  marvels  of  the  Gothic. 
I  can  hardly  imagine  that  even  the.  Athenians  heard  such 
music  in  their  chaste  and  beautiful  temples  as  you  heard 
in  the  Cathedral  at  York.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  tells  me  she  and  her  family  went  over  to 

Weston  Super  Mare.  Of  all  the  places  on  the  earth  or 
the  waters,  this  is  surely  the  most  muddy  and  miser- 
able. She  found  it  so,  although  her  voyage  was  not  made 
in  search  of  the  picturesque.  I  have  no  other  Bath  news 
to  offer  you.  I  have  exhausted  my  genius  in  the  long 
letter  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Paynter  this  morning.  Luckily 
she  asked  me  for  two  Examiners.  The  best  of  me  was 
in  them.  If  you  happen  to  receive  them  do  not  think  me 
spiteful  because  I  am  severe.  It  devolved  on  me  to 
punish  two  *  evil-doers.  I  was  called  to  it  by  many  loud 
voices,  and  some  of  them  from  afar.  J  do  confess  to  an 
intolerance  of  baseness,  but  I  am  very  tolerant  of  the  most 
adverse  opinions  on  all  subjects  whatsoever. 
Believe  me,  dear  Rose, 
Ever  affectionately  yours, 

W.  S.  LANDOR. 

[^Et.24]  CHARLES    LAMB 

1775-1834 
To  ROBERT  SOUTHEY 

["POOR  EARTH-BORN  COMPANIONS"] 

March  20th,  1799. 
ID  ear  Southey, — ] 

I  am  hugely  pleased  with  your  "Spider,"  f  "your  old 
freemason,"  as  you  call  him.  The  first  three  stanzas  are 
delicious;  they  seem  to  me  a  compound  of  Burns  and 

*  One  of  them  was  Brougham.     See  preceding  letter. 
jTtie  Spider.     Written  at  Westbury  in   1798. 


-dEt  24]  CHARLES   LAMB  79 

Old  Quarles,  the  kind  of  home-strokes,  where  more  is 
felt  than  strikes  the  ear;  a  terseness,  a  jocular  pathos, 
which  makes  one  feel  in  laughter.  The  measure,  too,  is 
novel  and  pleasing.  I  could  almost  wonder  Robert  Burns 
in  his  lifetime  never  stumbled  upon  it.  The  fourth 
stanza  is  less  striking,  as  being  less  original.  The  fifth 
falls  off.  It  has  no  felicity  of  phrase,  no  old-fashioned 
phrase  or  feeling. 

"Young  hopes,  and  love's  delightful  dreams," 

savour  neither  of  Burns  nor  Quarles;  they  seem  more 
like  shreds  of  many  a  modern  sentimental  sonnet.  The 
last  stanza  hath  nothing  striking  in  it,  if  I  except  the 
two  concluding  lines,  which  are  Burns  all  over.  I  wish, 
if  you  concur  with  me,  these  things  could  be  looked  to. 
I  am  sure  this  is  a  kind  of  writing,  which  comes  ten-fold 
better  recommended  to  the  heart,  comes  there  more  like 
a  neighbour  or  familiar,  than  thousands  of  Hamnels, 
and  Zillahs,  and  Madelons.  I  beg  you  will  send  me  the 
"Holly  Tree,"  if  it  at  all  resemble  this,  for  it  must 
please  me.  I  have  never  seen  it.  I  love  this  sort  of 
poems,  that  open  a  new  intercourse  with  the  most  de- 
spised of  the  animal  and  insect  race.  I  think  this  vein 
may  be  further  opened.  Peter  Pindar  hath  very  prettily 
apostrophized  a  fly;  Burns  hath  his  mouse  and  his  louse; 
Coleridge  less  successfully  hath  made  overtures  of  inti- 
macy to  a  jackass,  therein  only  following,  at  unresem- 
bling  distance,  •  Sterne,  and  greater  Cervantes.  Besides 
these,  I  know  of  no  other  examples  of  breaking  down  the 
partition  between  us  and  our  "poor  earth-born  compan- 
ions." It  is  sometimes  revolting  to  be  put  in  a  track  of 
feeling  by  other  people,  not  one's  own  immediate  thoughts, 
else  I  would  persuade  you,  if  I  could,  (I  am  in  earnest,) 
to  commence  a  series  of  these  animals'  poems,  which 
might  have  a  tendency  to  rescue  some  poor  creatures 
from  the  antipathy  of  mankind.  Some  thoughts  came 
across  me:  for  instance — to  a  rat,  to  a  toad,  to  a  cock- 
chafer, to  a  mole.  People  bake  moles  alive  by  a  slow 
oven  fire  to  cure  consumption.  Rats  are,  indeed,  the  most 
despised  and  contemptible  parts  of  God's  earth.  I  killed 
a  rat  the  other  day  by  punching  him  to  pieces,  and  feel 


80  CHAKLES   LAMB  [^t.  24 

a  weight  of  blood  upon  me  to  this  hour.  Toads  you 
know  are  made  to  fly,  and  tumble  down  and  crush  all  to 
pieces.  Cockchafers  are  old  sport.  Then  again  to  a 
worm,  with  an  apostrophe  to  anglers,  those  patient  tyrants, 
meek  inflictors  of  pangs  intolerable,  cool  devils;  to  an  owl; 
to  all  snakes,  with  an  apology  for  their  poison ;  to  a  cat  in 
boots  or  bladders.  Your  own  fancy,  if  it  takes  a  fancy 
to  these  hints,  will  suggest  many  more.  A  series  of  such 
poems,  suppose  them  accompanied  with  plates  descriptive 
of  animal  torments,  cooks  roasting  lobsters,  fishmongers 
crimping  skates,  &c.,  &c.,  would  take  excessively.  I  will 
willingly  enter  into  a  partnership  in  the  plan  with  you. 
I  think  my  heart  and  soul  would  go  with  it  too — at  least, 
give  it  a  thought.  My  plan  is  but  this  minute  come 
into  my  head;  but  it  strikes  me  instantaneously  as  some- 
thing new,  good,  and  useful,  full  of  pleasure,  and  full 
of  moral.  If  old  Quarles  and  Wither  could  live  again, 
we  would  invite  them  into  our  firm.  Burns  hath  done 
his  part. 

Poor  Sam.  Le  Grice !  I  am  afraid  the  world,  and  the 
camp,  and  the  university,  have  spoilt  him  among  them. 
'Tis  certain  he  had  at  one  time  a  strong  capacity  of 
turning  out  something  better.  I  knew  him,  and  that  not 
long  since,  when  he  had  a  most  warm  heart.  I  am 
ashamed  of  the  indifference  I  have  sometimes  felt  towards 
him.  I  think  the  devil  is  in  one's  heart.  I  am  under 
obligations  to  that  man  for  the  warmest  friendship,  and 
heartiest  sympathy  exprest  both  by  word  and  deed  and 
tears  for  me,  when  I  was  in  my  greatest  distress.  But  I 
have  forgot  that!  as,  I  fear,  he  has  nigh  forgot  the 
awful  scenes  which  were  before  his  eyes  when  he  served 
the  office  of  a  comforter  to  me.  No  service  was  too  mean 
or  troublesome  for  him  to  perform.  I  can't  think  what 
but  the  devil,  "that  old  spider,"  could  have  sucked  my 
heart  so  dry  of  its  sense  of  all  gratitude.  If  he  does  come 
in  your  way,  Southey,  fail  not  to  tell  him  that  I  retain 
a  most  affectionate  remembrance  of  his  old  friendliness, 
and  an  earnest  wish  to  resume  our  intercourse.  In  this 
I  am  serious.  I  cannot  recommend  him  to  your  society, 
because  I  am  afraid  whether  he  be  quite  worthy  of  it ; 
but  I  have  no  right  to  dismiss  him  from  my  regard.  He 
was  at  one  time,  and  in  the  worst  of  times,  my  own 


Mt.  25]  CHAKLES    LAMB  81 

familiar  friend,  and  great  comfort  to  me  then.  I  have 
known  him  to  play  at  cards  with  my  father,  meal-times 
excepted,  literally  all  day  long,  in  long  days  too,  to  save 
me  from  being  teased  by  the  old  man,  when  I  was  not  able 
to  bear  it. 

God  bless  him  for  it,  and  God  bless  you,  Southey. 

C.  L. 

[-ffit.  25] 

To  THOMAS  MANNING 
[AN  EXHIBITION  OF  SNAKES] 

Oct.  16th,  1800. 
Dear  Manning, — 

Had  you  written  one  week  before  you  did,  I  certainly 
should  have  obeyed  your  injunction;  you  should  have  seen 
me  before  my  letter.  I  will  explain  to  you  my  situation. 
There  are  six  of  us  in  one  department.  Two  of  us  (within 
these  four  days)  are  confined  with  severe  fevers;  and  two 
more,  who  belong  to  the  Tower  Militia,  expect  to  have 
marching  orders  on  Friday.  Now  six  are  absolutely  nec- 
essary. I  have  already  asked  and  obtained  two  young 
hands  to  supply  the  loss  of  the  feverites,  and,  with  the 
other  prospect  before  me,  you  may  believe  I  cannot  de- 
cently ask  leave  of  absence  for  myself.  All  I  can  promise 
(and  I  do  promise,  with  the  sincerity  of  St.  Peter,  and 
the  contrition  of  Sinner  Peter  if  I  fail)  that  I  will 
come  the  very  first  spare  week,  and  go  nowhere  till  I  have 
been  at  Cambridge.  No  matter  if  you  are  in  a  state  of 
pupilage  when  I  come;  for  I  can  employ  myself  in  Cam- 
bridge very  pleasantly  in  the  mornings.  Are  there  not 
libraries,  halls,  colleges,  books,  pictures,  statues?  I  wish 
you  had  made  London  in  your  way.  There  is  an  exhibi- 
tion quite  uncommon  in  Europe,  which  could  not  have 
escaped  your  genius, — a  live  rattlesnake,  ten  feet  in  length, 
and  the  thickness  of  a  big  leg.  I  went  to  see  it  last 
night  by  candle  light.  We  were  ushered  into  a  room 
very  little  bigger  than  ours  at  Pentonville.  A  man  and 
woman  and  four  boys  live  in  this  room,  joint  tenants 
with  nine  snakes,  most  of  them  such  as  no  remedy  has 
been  discovered  for  their  bite.  We  walked  into  the  middle, 
which  is  formed  by  a  half-moon  of  wired  boxes,  all  man- 


82  CHARLES   LAMB  [Mi.  25 

sions  of  snakes  —  whip-snakes,  thunder-snakes,  pig-nose- 
snakes,  American  vipers,  and  this  monster.  He  lies 
curled  up  in  folds.  Immediately  a  stranger  entered  (for 
he  is  used  to  the  family,  and  sees  them  play  at  cards,) 
he  set  up  a  rattle  like  a  watchman's  in  London,  or  near 
as  loud,  and  reared  up  a  head,  from  the  midst  of  these 
folds,  like  a  toad,  and  shook  his  head,  and  showed  every 
sign  a  snake  can  show  of  irritation.  I  had  the  foolish 
curiosity  to  strike  the  wires  with  my  finger,  and  the 
devil  flew  at  me  with  his  toad-mouth  wide  open;  the 
inside  of  his  mouth  is  quite  white.  I  had  got  my  finger 
away,  nor  could  he  well  have  bit  me  with  his  big  mouth, 
which  would  have  been  certain  death  in  five  minutes. 
But  it  frightened .  me  so  much,  that  I  did  not  recover 
my  voice  for  a  minute's  space.  I  forgot,  in  my  fear,  that 
he  was  secured.  You  would  have  forgot  too,  for  'tis 
incredible  how  such  a  monster  can  be  confined  in  small 
gauzy-looking  wires.  I  dreamed  of  snakes  in  the  night. 
I  wish  to  heaven  you  could  see  it.  He  absolutely  swelled 
with  passion  to  the  bigness  of  a  large  thigh.  I  could  not 
retreat  without  infringing  on  another  box;  and  just  be- 
hind, a  little  devil  not  an  inch  from  my  back  had  got  his 
nose  out,  with  some  difficulty  and  pain,  quite  through  the 
bars !  He  was  soon  taught  better  manners.  All  the 
snakes  were  curious,  and  objects  of  terror:  but  this  mon- 
ster, like  Aaron's  serpent,  swallowed  up  the  impression 
of  the  rest.  He  opened  his  cursed  mouth,  when  he  made 
at  me,  as  wide  as  his  head  was  broad.  I  hallooed  out 
quite  loud,  and  felt  pains  all  over  my  body  with  the 
fright. 

I  have  had  the  felicity  of  hearing  George  Dyer  read 
out  one  book  of  the  Farmers  Boy.  I  thought  it  rather 
childish.  No  doubt,  there  is  originality  in  it,  (which,  in 
your  self-taught  geniuses,  is  a  most  rare  quality,  they  gen- 
erally getting  hold  of  some  bad  models,  in  a  scarcity  of 
books,  and  forming  their  taste  on  them,)  but  no  selection. 
All  is  described. 

Mind,  I  have  only  heard  read  one  book. 
Yours  sincerely, 

Philo-Snake, 

C.  L. 


.  25]  CHAELES    LAMB  83 

25] 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 
{LONDON  AND  THE  LAKE  COUNTRY] 

Jan.  30th,  1801. 
[Dear  Wordsworth,  —  ] 

I  ought  before  this  to  have  replied  to  your  very  kind 
invitation  into  Cumberland.  With  you  and  your  sister 
I  could  gang  anywhere;  but  I  am  afraid  whether  I  shall 
ever  be  able  to  afford  so  desperate  a  journey.  Separate 
from  the  pleasure  of  your  company,  I  don't  much  care  if  I 
never  see  a  mountain  in  my  life.  I  have  passed  all  my  days 
in  London,  until  I  have  formed  as  many  and  intense  local 
attachments  as  any  of  you  mountaineers  can  have  done 
with  dead  Nature.  The  lighted  shops  of  the  Strand 
and  Fleet  Street;  the  innumerable  trades,  tradesmen,  and 
customers,  coaches,  waggons,  playhouses;  all  the  bustle 
and  wickedness  round  about  Covent  Garden;  the  very 
women  of  the  Town;  the  watchman,  drunken  scenes,  rat- 
tles; life  awake,  if  you  awake,  at  all  hours  of  the  night; 
the  impossibility  of  being  dull  in  Fleet  Street  ;  the  crowds, 
the  very  dirt  and  mud,  the  sun  shining  upon  houses  and 
pavements,  the  print-shops,  the  old  book-stalls,  parsons 
cheapening  books,  coffee-houses,  steams  of  soups  from 
kitchens,  the  pantomimes  —  London  itself  a  pantomime  and 
a  masquerade  —  all  these  things  work  themselves  into  my 
mind,  and  feed  me,  without  a  power  of  satiating  me. 
The  wonder  of  these  sights  impels  me  into  night-walks 
about  her  crowded  streets,  and  I  often  shed  tears  in  the 
motley  Strand  from  fulness  of  joy  at  so  much  life.  All 
these  emotions  must  be  strange  to  you;  so  are  your  rural 
emotions  to  me.  But  consider,  what  must  I  have  been 
doing  all  my  life,  not  to  have  lent  great  portions  of  my 
heart  with  usury  to  auch  scenes? 

My  attachments  are  all  local,  purely  local.  I  have  no 
passion  (or  have  had  none  since  I  was  in  love,  and  then 
it  was  the  spurious  engendering  of  poetry  and  books,) 
for  groves  and  valleys.  The  rooms  where  I  was  born, 
the  furniture  which  has  been  before  my  eyes  all  my  life, 
a  book-case  which  has  followed  me  about  like  a  faithful 
dog,  (only  exceeding  him  in  knowledge,)  wherever  I 
have  moved,  old  chairs,  old  tables,  streets,  squares,  where 


84  CHAELES    LAMB  [Mt.  26 

I  have  sunned  myself,  my  old  school,  —  these  are  my  mis- 
tresses. Have  I  not  enough,  without  your  mountains? 
I  do  not  envy  you.  I  should  pity  you,  did  I  not  know 
that  the  mind  will  make  friends  of  any  thing.  Your 
sun,  and  moon,  and  skies,  and  hills,  and  lakes,  affect  me 
no  more,  or  scarcely  come  to  me  in  more  venerable  char- 
acters, than  as  a  gilded  room  with  tapestry  and  tapers, 
where  I  might  live  with  handsome  visible  objects.  I  con- 
sider the  clouds  above  me  but  as  a  roof  beautifully 
painted,  but  unable  to  satisfy  the  mind:  and  at  last, 
like  the  pictures  of  the  apartment  of  a  connoisseur,  unable 
to  afford  him  any  longer  a  pleasure.  So  fading  upon  me, 
from  disuse,  have  been  the  beauties  of  Nature,  as  they 
have  been  confinedly  called;  so  ever  fresh,  and  green,  and 
warm  are  all  the  inventions  of  men,  and  assemblies  of  men 
in  this  great  city.  I  should  certainly  have  laughed  with 
dear  Joanna. 

Give  my  kindest  love,  and  my  sister's,  to  D.  and  your- 
self; and  a  kiss  from  me  to  little  Barbara  Lewthwaite. 
Thank  you  for  liking  my  play.* 

C.  L. 


To  WALTER  WILSON 
[AN  APOLOGY] 

August  14th,  1801. 
Dear  Wilson,  — 

I  am  extremely  sorry  that  any  serious  differences  should 
subsist  between  us,  on  account  of  some  foolish  behaviour 
of  mine  at  Richmond;  you  knew  me  well  enough  before, 
that  a  very  little  liquor  will  cause  a  considerable  altera- 
tion in  me. 

I  beg  you  to  impute  my  conduct  solely  to  that,  and  not 
to  any  deliberate  intention  of  offending  you,  from  whom 
I  have  received  so  many  friendly  attentions.  I  know 
that  you  think  a  very  important  difference  in  opinion 
with  respect  to  some  more  serious  subjects  between  us 
makes  me  a  dangerous  companion;  tut  do  not  rashly 
infer,  from  some  slight  and  light  expressions  which  .1 

*  Perhaps  the  tone  of  the  letter  is  somewhat  affected  by  Wordsworth's 
indifference  to  the  merits  of  John  Woodvil. 


Mt.  27]  CHARLES    LAMB  85 

may  have  made  use  of  in  a  moment  of  levity,  in  your 
presence,  without  sufficient  regard  to  your  feelings — do 
not  conclude  that  I  am  an  inveterate  enemy  to  all  re- 
ligion. I  have  had  a  time  of  seriousness,  and  I  have 
known  the  importance  and  reality  of  a  religious  belief. 
Latterly,  I  acknowledge,  much  of  my  seriousness  has 
gone  off,  whether  from  new  company,  or  some  other 
new  associations;  but  I  still  retain  at  bottom  a  conviction 
of  the  truth,  and  a  certainty  of  the  usefulness  of  re- 
ligion. I  will  not  pretend  to  more  gravity  of  feeling  than 
I  at  present  possess;  my  intention  is  not  to  persuade 
you  that  any  great  alteration  is  provable  in  me;  sudden 
converts  are  superficial  and  transitory;  I  only  want  you 
to  believe  that  I  have  stamina  of  seriousness  within  me, 
and  that  I  desire  nothing  more  than  a  return  of  that 
friendly  intercourse  which  used  to  subsist  between  us, 
but  which  my  folly  has  suspended. 
Believe  me, 

Very  affectionately  yours, 

C.  LAMB. 
|>Et.  27] 

To  THOMAS  MANNING 
[THE  LAKE  COUNTRY;  COLERIDGE] 

24th  Sept.,  1802,  LONDON. 
My  dear  Manning, — 

Since  the  date  of  my  last  letter  I  have  been  a  traveller. 
A  strong  desire  seized  me  of  visiting  remote  regions. 
My  first  impulse  was  to  go  and  see  Paris.  It  was  a 
trivial  objection  to  my  aspiring  mind,  that  I  did  not 
understand  a  word  of  the  language,  since  I  certainly 
intend  sometime  in  my  life  to  see  Paris,  and  equally 
certainly  intend  never  to  learn  the  language;  therefore 
that  could  be  no  objection.  However,  I  am  very  glad 
I  did  not  go,  because  you  had  left  Paris  (I  see)  before  I 
could  have  set  out.  I  believe  Stoddart  promising  to  go 
with  me  another  year,  prevented  that  plan.  My  next 
scheme  (for  to  my  restless,  ambitious  mind  London  was 
become  a  bed  of  thorns)  was  to  visit  the  far-famed  peak 
in  Derbyshire,  where  the  Devil  sits,  they  say,  without 
breeches.  This  my  purer  mind  rejected  as  indelicate. 
And  my  final  resolve  was,  a  tour  to  the  Lakes.  I  set  out 


86  CHAKLES   LAMB  [Mt.  27 

with  Mary  to  Keswick,  without  giving  Coleridge  any 
notice,  for  my  time,  bemg  precious,  did  not  admit  of  it. 
He  received  us  with  all  the  hospitality  in  the  world,  and 
gave  up  his  time  to  show  us  all  the  wonders  of  the  coun- 
try. He  dwells  upon  a  small  hill  by  the  side  of  Keswick, 
in  a  comfortable  house,  quite  enveloped  on  all  sides  by  a 
net  of  mountains:  great  floundering  bears  and  monsters 
they  seemed,  all  couchant  and  asleep.  We  got  in  in  the 
evening,  travelling  in  a  post-chaise  from  Penrith,  in  the 
midst  of  a  gorgeous  sunshine,  which  transmuted  all  the 
mountains  into  colours,  purple,  &c.,  &c.  We  thought  we 
had  got  into  fairy-land.  But  that  went  off  (as  it  never 
came  again;  while  we  stayed  we  had  no  more  fine  sun- 
sets;) and  we  entered  Coleridge's  comfortable  study  just 
in  the  dusk,  when  the  mountains  were  all  dark  with 
clouds  upon  their  heads.  Such  an  impression  I  never 
received  from  objects  of  sight  before,  nor  do  I  suppose  I 
can  ever  again.  Glorious  creatures,  fine  old  fellows,  Skid- 
daw,  &c.,  I  never  shall  forget  ye,  how  ye  lay  about  that 
night,  like  an  intrenchment ;  gone  to  bed,  as  it  seemed, 
for  the  night,  but  promising  that  ye  were  to  be  seen  in 
the  morning.  Coleridge  had  got  a  blazing  fire  in  his 
study;  which  is  a  large,  antique,  ill-shaped  room,  with 
an  old-fashioned  organ,  never  played  upon,  big  enough 
for  a  church,  shelves  of  scattered  folios,  an  ^Eolian  harp, 
and  an  old  sofa,  half  bed,  &c.  And  all  looking  out  upon 
the  last  fading  view  of  Skiddaw,  and  his  broad-breasted 
brethren :  what  a  night !  Here  we  stayed  three  full  weeks, 
in  which  time  I  visited  Wordsworth's  cottage,  where  we 
stayed  a  day  or  two  with  the  Clarksons,  (good  people, 
and  most  hospitable,  at  whose  house  we  tarried  one  day 
and  night,)  and  saw  Lloyd.  The  Wordsworths  were  gone 
to  Calais.  They  have  since  been  in  London,  and  past 
much  time  with  us:  he  is  now  gone  into  Yorkshire  to  be 
married.  So  we  have  seen  Keswick,  Grasmere,  Amble- 
side,  Ulswater,  (where  the  Clarksons  live,)  and  a  place 
at  the  other  end  of  Ulswater;  I  forget  the  name:  to  which 
we  travelled  on  a  very  sultry  day,  over  the  middle  of 
Helvellyn.  We  have  clambered  up  to  the  top  of  Skiddaw, 
and  I  have  waded  up  the  bed  of  Lodore.  In  fine,  I  have 
satisfied  myself  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  that  which 
tourists  call  romantic,  which  I  very  much  suspected  be- 


Mt.  27]  CHARLES   LAMB  87 

fore:  they  make  such  a  spluttering  about  it,  and  toss 
their  splendid  epithets  around  them,  till  they  give  as  dim 
a  light  as  at  four  o'clock  next  morning  the  lamps  do 
after  an  illumination.  Mary  was  excessively  tired  when 
she  got  about  half-way  up  Skiddaw,  but  we  came  to  a 
cold  rill  (than  which  nothing  can  be  imagined  more  cold, 
running  over  cold  stones,)  and  with  the  reinforcement  of 
a  draught  of  cold  water  she  surmounted  it  most  man- 
fully. Oh,  its  fine  black  head,  and  the  bleak  air  atop  of 
it,  with  a  prospect  of  mountains  all  about  and  about, 
making  you  giddy;  and  then  Scotland  afar  off,  and  the 
border  countries  so  famous  in  song  and  ballad!  It  was 
a  day  that  will  stand  out,  like  a  mountain,  I  am  sure,  in 
my  life.  But  I  am  returned,  (I  have  now  -been  come 
home  near  three  weeks;  I  was  a  month  out,)  and  you 
cannot  conceive  the  degradation  I  felt  at  first,  from  be- 
ing accustomed  to  wander  free  as  air  among  mountains, 
and  bathe  in -rivers  without  being  controlled  by  anyone, 
to  come  home  and  work.  I  felt  very  little.  I  had  been 
dreaming  I  was  a  very  great  man.  But  that  is  going  off, 
and  I  find  I  shall  conform  in  time  to  that  state  of  life 
to  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  call  me.  Besides,  after 
all,  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand  are  better  places  to  live 
in  for  good  and  all  than  amidst  Skiddaw.  Still,  I  turn 
back  to  those  great  places  where  I  wandered  about,  par- 
ticipating in  their  greatness.  After  all,  I  could  not  live 
in  Skiddaw.  I  could  spend  a  year,  two,  three  years  among 
them,  but  I  must  have  a  prospect  of  seeing  Fleet  Street 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  or  I  should  mope  and  pine  away, 
I  know.  Still,  Skiddaw  is  a  fine  creature.  My  habits 
are  changing,  I  think,  i.e.,  from  drunk  to  sober.  Whether 
I  shall  be  happy  or  not  remains  to  be  proved.  I  shall 
certainly  be  more  happy  in  a  morning;  but  whether  I 
shall  not  sacrifice  the  fat,  and  the  marrow,  and  the  kid- 
neys, i.e.,  the  night,  glorious  care-drowning  night,  that 
heals  all  our  wrongs,  pours  wine  into  our  mortifications, 
changes  the  scene  from  indifferent  and  flat  to  bright  and 
brilliant!  O  Manning,  if  I  should  have  formed  a  dia- 
bolical resolution,  by  the  time  you  come  to  England,  of 
not  admitting  any  spiritous  liquors  into  my  house,  will 
you  be  my  guest  on  such  shameworthy  terms?  Is  life, 
with  such  limitations,  worth  trying?  The  truth  is,  that 


88  CHAKLES    LAMB  [Mt.  30 

my  liquors  bring  a  nest  of  friendly  harpies  about  my 
house,  who  consume  me.  This  is  a  pitiful  tale  to  be  read 
at  St.  Gothard,  but  it  is  just  now  nearest  my  heart.  Fen- 
wick  is  a  ruined  man.  He  is  hiding  himself  from  his 
creditors,  and  has  sent  his  wife  and  children  into  the 
country.  Fell,  my  other  drunken  companion,  (that  has 
been :  nam  hie  coestus  artemque  repono,)  is  turned  editor 
of  a  Naval  Chronicle.  Godwin  continues  a  steady  friend, 
though  the  same  facility  does  not  remain  of  visiting  him 

often.     That  has   detached  Marshall   from  his 

house;  Marshall,  the  man  who  went  to  sleep  when  the 
"Ancient  Mariner"  was  reading;  the  old,  steady,  unalter- 
able friend  of  the  Professor.  Holcroft  is  not  yet  come 
to  town.  I  expect  to  see  him,  and  will  deliver  your  mes- 
sage. Things  come  crowding  in  to  say,  and  no  room  for 
'em.  Some  things  are  too  little  to  be  told,  i.e.,  to  have  a 
preference;  some  are  too  big  and  circumstantial.  Thanks 
for  yours,  which  was  most  delicious.  Would  I  had  been 
with  you,  benighted,  &c. !  I  fear  my  head  is  turned  with 
wandering.  I  shall  never  be  the  same  acquiescent  being. 
Farewell.  Write  again  quickly,  for  I  shall  not  like  to 
hazard  a  letter,  not  knowing  where  the  fates  have  carried 
you.  Farewell,  my  dear  fellow. 

C.  LAMB. 

[Mi.  30] 

To  WILLIAM  AND  DOROTHY  WORDSWORTH 
[THE  "FAREWELL  TO  TOBACCO"] 

Sept.  28th,  1805. 

My  dear  Wordsworth,  (or  Dorothy  rather,  for  to  you 
appertains  the  biggest  part  of  this  answer  by  right,)  I 
will  not  again  deserve  reproach  by  so  long  a  silence.  I 
have  kept  deluding  myself  with  the  idea  that  Mary  would 
write  to  you,  but  she  is  so  lazy,  (or,  which  I  believe  is 
the  true  state  of  the  case,  so  diffident,)  that  it  must  re- 
vert to  me  as  usual.  Though  she  writes  a  pretty  good 
style,  and  has  some  notion  of  the  force  of  words,  she  is 
not  always  so  certain  of  the  true  orthography  of  them: 
and  that,  and  a  poor  handwriting  (in  this  age  of  female 
calligraphy),  often  deters  her,  where  no  other  reason  does. 

We  have  neither  of  us  been  very  well  for  some  weeks 


JEt.  30]  CHAKLES   LAMB  89 

past.  I  am  very  nervous,  and  she  most  so  at  those  times 
when  I  am;  so  that  a  merry  friend,  adverting  to  the  noble 
consolation  we  were  able  to  afford  each  other,  denominated 
us,  not  unaptly,  Gum-Boil  and  Tooth- Ache,  for  they  used 
to  say  that  a  gum-boil  is  a  great  relief  to  a  tooth-ache. 

We  have  been  two  tiny  excursions  this  Summer,  for 
three  or  four  days  each,  to  a  place  near  Harrow,  and  to 
Egham,  where  Cooper's  Hill  is:  and  that  is  the  total  his- 
tory of  our  rustications  this  year.  Alas!  how  poor  a 
round  to  Skiddaw  and  Helvellyn,  and  Borrowdale,  and 
the  magnificent  sesquipedalia  of  the  year  1802 !  Poor  old 
Molly !  to  have  lost  her  pride,  that  "last  infirmity  of  noble 
minds,"  and  her  cow.  Fate  need  not  have  set  her  wits  to 
such  an  old  Molly.  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  her.  Remem- 
ber us  lovingly  to  her;  and  in  particular  remember  us  to 
Mrs.  Clarkson  in  the  most  kind  manner. 

I  hope,  by  "southwards,"  you  mean  that  she  will  be  at 
or  near  London,  for  she  is  a  great  favourite  of  both  of 
us,  and  we  feel  for  her  health  as  much  as  [is]  possible  for 
any  one  to  do.  She  is  one  of  the  friendliest,  comfortablest 
women  we  know,  and  made  our  little  stay  at  your  cottage 
one  of  the  pleasantest  times  we  ever  past.  We  were  quite 
strangers  to  her.  Mr.  C.  is  with  you  too;  our  kindest 
separate  remembrances  to  him.  As  to  our  special  affairs, 
I  am  looking  about  me.  I  have  done  nothing  since  the 
beginning  of  last  year,  when  I  lost  my  newspaper  job; 
and  having  had  a  long  idleness,  I  must  do  something  or 
we  shall  get  very  poor.  Sometimes  I  think  of  a  farce,  but 
hitherto  all  schemes  have  gone  off;  an  idle  brag  or  two 
of  an  evening,  vapouring  out  of  a  pipe,  and  going  off  in 
the  morning;  but  now  I  have  bid  farewell  to  my  "sweet 
enemy,"  Tobacco,  I  shall  perhaps  set  nobly  to  work.  Hang 
work! 

I  wish  that  all  the  year  were  holiday;  I  am  sure  that 
indolence — indefeasible  indolence — is  the  true  state  of 
man,  and  business  the  invention  of  the  old  Teazer,  whose 
interference  doomed  Adam  to  an  apron  and  set  him  a 
hoeing.  Pen  and  ink,  and  clerks  and  desks,  were  the  re- 
finements of  this  old  torturer  some  thousand  years  after, 
under  pretence  of  "Commerce  allying  distant  shores,  pro- 
moting and  diffusing  knowledge,  good,"  &c.,  &c. 

I  wish  you  may  think  this  a  handsome  farewell  to  my 


90  CHAKLES    LAMB  [^Et.  30 

"Friendly  Traitress."  Tobacco  has  been  my  evening  com- 
fort and  my  morning  curse  for  these  five  years;  and  you 
know  how  difficult  it  is  from  refraining  to  pick  one's  lips 
even,  when  it  has  become  a  habit.  This  poem  is  the  only 
one  which  I  have  finished  since  so  long  as  when  I  wrote 
"Hester  Savory."  I  have  had  it  in  my  head  to  do  it  these 
two  years,  but  tobacco  stood  in  its  own  light  when  it  gave 
me  headaches  that  prevented  my  singing  its  praises.  Now 
you  have  got  it,  you  have  got  all  my  store,  for  I  have 
absolutely  not  another  line.  No  more  has  Mary.  We 
have  nobody  about  -us  that  cares  for  poetry  ;  and  who  will 
rear  grapes  when  he  shall  be  the  sole  eater?  Perhaps  if 
you  encourage  us  to  show  you  what  we  may  write,  we  may 
do  something  now  and  then  before  we  absolutely  forget 
the  quantity  of  an  English  line  for  want  of  practice.  The 
"Tobacco,"  being  a  little  in  the  way  of  Withers  (whom 
Southey  so  much  likes),  perhaps  you  will  somehow  con- 
vey it  to  him  with  my  kind  remembrances.  Then  every- 
body will  have  seen  it  that  I  wish  to  see  it.  I  have  sent  it 
to  Malta. 

I  remain,  dear  W.  and  D.,  yours  truly, 

0.  LAMB. 


30] 

To  THOMAS  MANNING 
["PEARLS  OF  EXTRAORDINARY  MAGNITUDE"] 

[Nov.  15,  1805.] 
Dear  Manning,  — 

Certainly  you  could  not  have  called  at  all  hours  from 
two  till  ten,  for  we  have  been  only  out  of  an  evening  Mon- 
day and  Tuesday  in  this  week.  But  if  you  think  you 
have,  your  thought  shall  go  for  the  deed.  We  did  pray 
for  you  on  Wednesday  night.  Oysters  unusually  luscious  ; 
pearls  of  extraordinary  magnitude  found  in  them.  I  have 
made  bracelets  of  them;  given  them  in  clusters  to  ladies. 
Last  night  we  went  out  in  despite,  because  you  were  not 
come  at  your  hour. 

This  night  we  shall  be  at  home;  so  shall  we  certainly, 
both,  on  Sunday,  Monday,  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday. 
Take  your  choice,  mind  I  don't  say  of  one:  but  choose 
trhich  evening  you  will  not  come,  and  come  the  other 


- 


t.  31]  CHARLES    LAMB  91 

four.     Doors  open  at  five  o'clock.     Shells  forced   about 
nine.    Every  gentleman  smokes  or  not  as  he  pleases. 

C.  L. 

[JEt.  31] 

To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

[Mr.  H. ] 

December  llth,  1806. 

Mary's  love  to  all  of  you — I  wouldn't  let  her  write. 
Dear  Wordsworth, — 

Mr.  H.  came  out  last  night,  and  failed.     I  had  many 
1  fears ;  the  subject  was  not  substantial  enough.    John  Bull 
must  have  solider  fare  than  a  letter.    We  are  pretty  stout 
about  it;  have  had  plenty  of  condoling  friends;  but,  after 
!  all,  we  had  rather  it  should  have  succeeded.    You  will  see 
j  the  prologue  in  most  of  the  morning  papers.     It  was  re- 
ceived with  such  shouts  as  I  never  witnessed  to  a  prologue. 
1  It  was  attempted  to  be  encored.     How  hard ! — a  thing  I 
'  did  merely  as  a  task,  because  it  was  wanted,  and  set  no 
great  store  by;  and  Mr.  H.!!    The  number  of  friends  we 
had  in  the  house — my  brother  and  I  being  in  public  of- 
fices, &c. — was  astonishing,  but  they  yielded  at  length  to 
a  few  hisses. 

A  hundred  hisses!  (Damn  the  word,  I  write  it  like 
kisses  —  how  different!) — a  hundred  hisses  outweigh  a 
thousand  claps.  The  former  come  more  directly  from 
the  heart.  Well,  'tis  withdrawn,  and  there  is  an  end. 

Better  luck  to  us. 

C.  LAMB. 
(Turn  over.) 

P.  8.  Pray,  when  any  of  you  write  to  the  Clarksons, 
give  our  kind  loves,  and  say  we  shall  not  be  able  to  come 
and  see  them  at  Christmas,  as  I  shall  have  but  a  day  or 
two,  and  tell  them  we  bear  our  mortification  pretty  well* 


32  CHARLES   LAMB  [JEt.  40 

40] 


To  MlSS  HUTCHINSON 

[ILLNESS  OF  HIS  SISTER] 

Thursday,  19th  Oct.,  1815. 
Dear  Miss  H.,  — 

I  am  forced  to  be  the  replier  to  your  letter,  for  Mary  * 
has  been  ill,  and  gone  from  home  these  five  weeks  yester- 
day. She  has  left  me  very  lonely  and  very  miserable.  I 
stroll  about,  but  there  is  no  rest  but  at  one's  own  fireside, 
and  there  is  no  rest  for  me  there  now.  I  look  forward  to 
the  worse  half  being  past,  and  keep  up  as  well  as  I  can. 
She  has  begun  to  show  some  favourable  symptoms.  The 
return  of  her  disorder  has  been  frightfully  soon  this  time, 
with  scarce  a  six  months'  interval.  I  am  almost  afraid 
my  worry  of  spirits  about  the  E.  I.  House  was  partly  the 
cause  of  her  illness,  but  one  always  imputes  it  to  the 
cause  next  at  hand;  more  probably  it  comes  from  some 
cause  we  have  no  controlover  or  conjecture  of.  It  cuts 
sad  great  slices  out  of  the  time,  the  little  time,  we  shall 
have  to  live  together.  I  don't  know  but  the  recurrence 
of  these  illnesses  might  help  me  to  sustain  her  death  bet- 
ter than  if  we  had  had  no  partial  separations.  But  I 
won't  talk  of  death.  I  will  imagine  us  immortal,  or  for- 
get that  we  are  otherwise.  By  God's  blessing,  in  a  few 
weeks  we  may  be  making  our  meal  together,  or  sitting 
in  the  front  row  of  the  Pit  at  Drury  Lane,  or  taking  our 
evening  walk  past  the  theatres,  to  look  at  the  outside  of 
them,  at  least,  if  not  to  be  tempted  in.  Then  we  forget 
we  are  assailable;  we  are  strong  for  the  time  as  rocks;  — 
"the  wind  is  tempered  to  the  shorn  Lambs."  Poor  C. 
Lloyd,  and  poor  Priscilla!  I  feel  I  hardly  feel  enough 
for  him;  my  own  calamities  press  about  me,  and  involve 
me  in  a  thick  integument  not  to  be  reached  at  by  other 
folks'  misfortunes.  But  I  feel  all  I  can  —  all  the  kindness 
I  can,  towards  you  all  —  God  bless  you!  I  hear  nothing 
from  Coleridge. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  LAMB. 

*  For   letters  by  Mary  Lamb,  see  pp.    124-128. 


Mt.  40]  CHARLES   LAMB  93 

[Mi.  40] 

To  THOMAS  MANNING 

[AN  IMAGINARY   FLIGHT   OF  TIME] 

Dec.  25th,  1815. 
Dear  old  friend  and  absentee, — 

This  is  Christmas  Day  1815  with  us;  what  it  may  be 
with  you  I  don't  know,  the  12th  of  June  next  year  per- 
haps; and  if  it  should  be  the  consecrated  season  with  you, 
I  don't  see  how  you  can  keep  it.  You  have  no  turkeys ; 
you  would  not  desecrate  the  festival  by  offering  up  a  with- 
ered Chinese  Bantam,  instead  of  the  savoury  grand  Nor- 
folcian  holocaust,  that  smokes  all  around  my  nostrils  at 
this  moment  from  a  thousand  firesides.  Then  what  pud- 
dings have  you?  Where  will  you  get  holly  to  stick  in 
your  churches,  or  churches  to  stick  your  dried  tea-leaves 
(that  must  be  the  substitute)  in?  What  memorials  you 
can  have  of  the  holy  time,  I  see  not.  A  chopped  mission- 
ary or  two  may  keep  "up  the  thin  idea  of  Lent  and  the 
wilderness;  but  what  standing  evidence  have  you  of  the 
Nativity?  'Tis  our  rosy-cheeked,  home-stalled  divines, 
whose  faces  shine  to  the  tune  of  "Unto  us  a  child  is 
born,"  faces  fragrant  with  the  mince-pies  of  half  a  cen- 
tury, that  alone  can  authenticate  the  cheerful  mystery. 
I  feel  my  bowels  refreshed  with  the  holy  tide;  my  zeal  is 
great  against  the  unedified  heathen.  Down  with  the  Pa- 
godas— down  with  the  idols — Ching-chong-fo — and  his 
foolish  priesthood!  Come  out  of  Babylon,  O  my  friend! 
for  her  time  is  come;  and  the  child  that  is  native,  and 
the  Proselyte  of  Eer  gates,  shall  kindle  and  smoke  to- 
gether !  And  in  sober  sense  what  makes  you  so  long  from 
among  us,  Manning  ?  You  must  not  expect  to  see  the 
same  England  again  which  you  left. 

Empires  have  been  overturned,  crowns  trodden  into 
dust,  the  face  of  the  western  world  quite  changed.  Your 
friends  have  all  got  old — those  you  left  blooming;  my- 
self, (who  am  one  of  the  few  that  remember  you,)  those 
golden  hairs  which  you  recollect  my  taking  a  pride  in, 
turned  to  silvery  and  grey.  Mary  has  been  dead  and 
buried  many  years:  she  desired  to  be  buried  in  the  silk 
gown  you  sent  her.  Rickman,  that  you  remember  active 
and  strong,  now  walks  out  supported  by  a  servant  maid 


94  CHARLES    LAMB  [Mt.  40 

and  a  stick.  Martin  Burney  is  a  very  old  man.  The 
other  day  an  aged  woman  knocked  at  my  door,  and  pre- 
tended to  my  acquaintance.  It  was  long  before  I  had 
the  most  distant  cognition  of  her;  but  at  last,  together, 
we  made  her  out  to  be  Louisa,  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Top- 
ham,  formerly  Mrs.  Morton,  who  had  been  Mrs.  Reynolds, 
formerly  Mrs.  Kenney,  whose  first  husband  was  Holcroft, 
the  dramatic  writer  of  the  last  century.  St.  Paul's  church 
is  a  heap  of  ruins;  the  Monument  isn't  half  so  high  as 
you  knew  it,  divers  parts  being  successively  taken  down 
which  the  ravages  of  time  had  rendered  dangerous;  the 
horse  at  Charing  Cross  is  gone,  no  one  knows  whither; 
and  all  this  has  taken  place  while  you  have  been  settling 
whether  Ho-hing-tong  should  be  spelt  with  a — ,  or  a — . 
For  aught  I  see  you  might  almost  as  well  remain  where 
you  are,  and  not  come  like  a  Struldbrug  into  a  world 
where  few  were  born  when  you  went  away.  Scarce  here 
and  there  one  will  be  able  to  make  out  your  face.  All  your 
opinions  will  be  out  of  date,  youf  jokes  obsolete,  your 
puns  rejected  with  fastidiousness  as  wit  of  the  last  age. 
Your  way  of  mathematics  has  already  given  way  to  a 
new  method,  which  after  all  is  I  believe  the  old  doctrine 
of  Maclaurin,  new-vamped  up  with  what  he  borrowed  of 
the  negative  quantity  of  fluxions  from  Euler. 

Poor  Godwin!  I  was  passing  his  tomb  the  other  day  in 
Cripplegate  churchyard.     There  are  some  verses  upon  it 

written  by  Miss  ,  which  if  I  thought  good  enough  I 

would  send  you.  He  was  one  of  those  who  would  have 
hailed  your  return,  not  with  boisterous  shouts  and  clam- 
ours, but  with  the  complacent  gratulations  of  a  philoso- 
pher anxious  to  promote  knowledge  as  leading  to  happi- 
ness; but  his  systems  and  his  theories  are  ten  feet  deep 
in  Cripplegate  mould.  Coleridge  is  just  dead,  having 
lived  just  long  enough  to  close  the  eyes  of  Wordsworth, 
who  paid  the  debt  to  Nature  but  a  week  or  two  before. 
Poor  Col.,  but  two  days  before  he  died  he  wrote  to  a 
bookseller,  proposing  an  epic  poem  on  the  "Wanderings 
of  Cain,"  in  twenty-four  books.  It  is  said  he  has  left 
behind  him  more  than  forty  thousand  treatises  in  criti- 
cism, metaphysics,  and  divinity,  but  few  of  them  in  a 
state  of  completion.  They  are  now  destined,  perhaps,  to 
wrap  up  spices.  You  see  what  mutations  the  busy  hand 


Mi.  40]  CHARLES    LAMB     .  95 

of  Time  has  produced,  while  you  have  consumed  in  fool- 
ish voluntary  exile  that  time  which  might  have  gladdened 
your  friends — benefited  your  country;  but  reproaches  are 
useless.  Gather  up  the  wretched  reliques,  my  friend,  as 
fast  as  you  can,  and  come  to  your  old  home.  I  will  rub 
my  eyes  and  try  to  recognise  you.  We  will  shake  with- 
ered hands  together,  and  talk  of  old  things — of  St.  Mary's 
Church  and  the  barber's  opposite,  where  the  young  stu- 
dents in  mathematics  used  to  assemble.  Poor  Crips,  that 
kept  it  afterwards,  set  up  a  fruiterer's  shop  in  Trumping- 
ton  Street,  and  for  aught  I  know  resides  there  still,  for 
I  saw  the  name  up  in  the  last  journey  I  took  there  wifti 
my  sister  just  before  she  died.  I  suppose  you  heard  that 
I  had  left  the  India  House,  and  gone  into  the  Fish- 
mongers' Almshouses  over  the  bridge.  I  have  a  little 
cabin  there,  small  and  homely,  but  you  shall  be  welcome 
to  it.  You  like  oysters,  and  to  open  them  yourself;  I'll 
get  you  some  if  you  come  in  oyster  time.  Marshall,  God- 
win's old  friend,  is  still  alive,  and  talks  of  the  faces  you 
used  to  make. 

Come  as  soon  as  you  can. 

0.  LAMB. 
To  THE  SAME 
[CORRECTING  THE  "FALSE  NUNCIO"] 

Dec.  26th,  1815. 
Dear  Manning, — 

Following  your  brother's  example,  I  have  just  ventured 
one  letter  to  Canton,  and  am  now  hazarding  another  (not 
exactly  a  duplicate)  to  St.  Helena.  The  first  was  full  of 
unprobable  romantic  fictions,  fitting  the  remoteness  of 
the  mission  it  goes  upon;  in  the  present  I  mean  to  con- 
fine myself  nearer  to'  truth  as  you  come  nearer  home.  A 
correspondence  with  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth 
necessarily  involves  in  it  some  heat  of  fancy,  it  sets  the 
brain  agoing,  but  I  can  think  on  the  half-way  house 
tranquilly.  Your  friends  then  are  not  all  dead  or  grown 
forgetful  of  you  through  old  age,  as  that  lying  letter  as- 
serted, anticipating  rather  what  must  happen  if  you  kept 
tarrying  on  forever  on  the  skirts  of  creation,  as  there 
seemed  a  danger  of  your  doing;  but  they  are  all  tolerably 
well  and  in  full  and  perfect  comprehension  of  what  is 


96  CHAELES    LAMB  [Mt.  40 

meant  by  Manning's  coming  home  again.  Mrs.  Kenny 
never  lets  her  tongue  run  riot  more  than  in  remembrances 
of  you.  Fanny  expends  herself  in  phrases  that  can  only 
be  justified  by  her  romantic  nature.  Mary  reserves  a 
portion  of  your  silk,  not  to  be  buried  in,  (as  the  false 
nuncio  asserts)  but  to  make  up  spick  and  span  into  a 
bran-new  gown  to  wear  when  you  come.  I  am  the  same 
as  when  you  knew  me,  almost  to  a  surfeiting  identity. 
This  very  night  I  am  going  to  leave  off  tobacco!  Surely 
there  must  be  some  other  world  in  which  this  unconquer- 
able purpose  shall  be  realised.  The  soul  hath  not  her 
generous  aspirings  implanted  in  her  in  vain.  One  that 
you  knew,  and  I  think  the  only  one  of  those  friends  we 
knew  much  of  in  common,  has  died  in  earnest.  Poor 
Priscilla!  Her  brother  Robert  is  also  dead,  and  several 
of  the  grown-up  brothers  and  sisters,  in  the  compass  of 
a  very  few  years.  Death  has  not  otherwise  meddled  much 
in  families  that  I  know.  Not  but  he  has  his  eye  upon 
us,  and  is  whetting  his  feathered  dart  every  instant,  as 
you  see  him  truly  pictured  in  that  impressive  moral  pic- 
ture, "The  good  man  at  the  hour  of  death."  I  have  in 
trust  to  put  in  the  post  four  letters  from  Diss,  and  one 
from  Lynn,  to  St.  Helena,  which  I  hope  will  accompany 
this  safe,  and  one  from  Lynn,  and  the  one  before  spoken 
of  from  me,  to  Canton.  But  we  all  hope  that  these  letters 
may  be  waste  paper.  I  don't  know  why  I  have  forborne 
writing  so  long;  but  it  is  such  a  forlorn  hope  to  send  a 
scrap  of  paper  straggling  over  wide  oceans!  And  yet  I 
know,  when  you  come  home,  I  shall  have  you  sitting  be- 
fore me  at  our  fireside  just  as  if  you  had  never  been 
away.  In  such  an  instant  does  the  return  of  a  person 
dissipate  all  the  weight  of  imaginary  perplexity  from  dis- 
tance of  time  and  space!  I'll  promise  you  good  oysters. 
Cory  is  dead  that  kept  the  shop  opposite  St.  Dunston's ; 
but  the  tougher  materials  of  the  shop  survive  the  perish- 
ing frame  of  its  keeper.  Oysters  continue  to  flourish 
there  under  as  good  auspices.  Poor  Cory!  But  if  you 
will  absent  yourself  twenty  years  together,  you  must  not 
expect  numerically  the  same  population  to  congratulate 
your  return  which  wetted  the  sea-beach  with  their  tears 
when  you  went  away.  Have  you  recovered  the  breathless 
stone-staring  astonishment  into  which  you  must  have 


42]  CHAELES    LAMB  97 

been  thrown  upon  learning  at  landing  that  an  Emperor 
of  France  was  living  at  St.  Helena?  What  an  event  in 
the  solitude  of  the  seas!  like  finding  a  fish's  bone  at  the 
top  of  Plinlimmon ;  but  these  things  are  nothing  in  our 
western  world.  Novelties  cease  to  affect.  Come  and  try 
what  your  presence  can. 

God  bless  you. — Your  old  friend, 

C.  LAMB. 
t-fflt.  42] 

To  WILLIAM  AYRTON 

[A   REQUEST   FOR  OPERA   TICKETS] 

ACCOUNTANT'S  OFFICE, 
EAST  INDIA  HOUSE, 
Friday,  Ap.  18,  1817. 
Dear  A., — 

I  am  in  your  debt  for  a  very  delightful  evening  —  I 
should  say  two — but  Don  Giovanni  in  particular  was  ex- 
quisite, and  I  am  almost  inclined  to  allow  Music  to  be 
one  of  the  Liberal  Arts;  which  before  I  doubted.  Could 
you  let  me  have  3  Gallery  Tickets — don't  be  startled — 
they  shall  positively  be  the  last — or  2  or  1 — for  the  same, 
for  to-morrow  or  Tuesday.  They  will  be  of  no  use  for 
to-morrow  if  not  put  in  the  post  this  day  addrest  to  me, 
Mr.  Lamb,  India  House;  if  for  any  other  evening,  your 
usual  blundering  direction,  No.  3  Middle  Temple  instead 
of  4  Inner  Temple  Lane  will  do.  Yours, 

CH.  LAMB. 

To  THE  SAME 
[ANOTHER  REQUEST] 

TEMPLE,  12  May  [1817]. 
My  dear  friend — 
Before  I  end — 
Have  you  any 
More  orders  for  Don  Giovanni 

To  give 
Him  that  doth  live 

your  faithful  Zany? 
Without  raillery 
I  mean  Gallery 
ones. 


98  CHAKLES   LAMB  [^Et.  42 

For  I  am  a  person  that  shuns 

All  ostentation 

And  being  at  the  top  of  the  fashion, 
And  seldom  go  to  operas 
But  in  forma  Pauperis. 
I  go  to  the  Play 

In  a  very  economical  sort  of  way, 
Rather  to  see 
Than  be  seen. 
Though  I'm  no  ill  sight 

Neither 

By  candle  light 

And  in  some  kinds  of  weather. 
You  might  pit  me 

For  weight 
Against  Kean. 
But  in  a  grand  tragic  scene 

I'm  nothing. 

It  would  create  a  kind  of  loathing 
To  see  me  act  Hamlet. 
There'd  be  many  a  damn  let 

fly 
At  my  presumption 

If  I  should  try 
Being  a  fellow  of  no  gumption. 

By  the  way  tell  me  candidly  how  you  relish 
This  which  they  call  the  lapidary 

Style? 

Opinions  vary. 
The  late  Mr.  Mellish 

Could  never  abide  it. 
He  thought  it  vile, 
And  coxcombical. 
My  friend  the  Poet  Laureat 
Who  is  a  great  lawyer  at 

Anything  comical 
Was  the  first  who  tried  it 
But  Mellish  could  never  abide  it. 

But  it  signifies  very  little  what  Mellish  said, 
Because  he  is*  dead. 


42]  CHAKLES   LAMB  9& 

For  who  can  confute 
A  body  that's  mute? 
Or  who  would  fight 
With  a  senseless  sprite? 
Or  think  of  troubling 
An  impenetrable  old  goblin 
That's  dead  and  gone 
And  stiff  as  a  stone — 

To  convince  him  with  arguments  pro  and  con 
As  if  he  were  some  live  logician 

Bred  up  at  Merton 
or  Mr.  Hazlitt  the  Metaphysician — 

Ha!  Mr.  Ayrton — 
With  all  your  rare  tone — 

For  tell  me  how  should  an  apparition 

List  to  your  call, 
Though  you  talk'd  forever 
Ever  so  clever 

When  his  ear  itself 

By  which  he  must  hear  or  not  hear  at  all 
Is  laid  on  the  shelf  ? 
Or  put  the  case 
(for  more  grace) 
It  were  a  female  spectre — 
How  could  you  expect  her 
To  take  much  gust 

In  long  speeches 
With  her  tongue  as  dry  as  dust 
In  a  sandy  place 
Where  no  peaches 
Nor  lemons  nor  limes  nor  oranges  hang 

To  drop  on  the  drouth  of  an  arid  harangue, 

or  quench 

With  their  sweet  drench 
The  fiery  pangs  which  the  worms  inflict 
With  their  endless  nibblings 
Like  quibblings 
Which  the  corpse  may  dislike,  but  can  ne'er  contradict. 

Ha!  Mr.  Ayrton! 
With  all  your  rare  tone — 

I  am    C.  LAMB. 


100  CHAKLES    LAMB  [^Et.  42 

[JEt.  42] 

To  CHARLES  CHAMBERS 
[FAVOURITE  DISHES] 

1  Sept.,  1817. 

With  regard  to  a  John  Dory,  which  you  desire  to  be 
particularly  informed  about, — I  honour  the  fish,  but  it  is 
rather  on  account  of  Quin,  who  patronised  it,  and  whose 
taste  (of  a  dead  man)  I  had  as  lieve  go  by  as  any  body's, 
Apicius  and  Heliogabalus  excepted — this  latter  started 
nightingales'  brains  and  peacocks'  tongues  as  a  garnish. 
Else,  in  itself,  and  trusting  to  my  own  poor  single  judg- 
ment, it  hath  not  the  moist,  mellow,  oleaginous,  gliding, 
smooth  descent  from  the  tongue  to  the  palate,  thence  to 
the  stomach,  etc.,  as  your  Brighton  turbot  hath,  which  I 
take  to  be  the  most  friendly  and  familiar  flavour  of  any 
that  swims — most  genial  and  at  home  to  the  palate. 

Nor  has  it,  on  the  other  hand,  that  fine  falling-off 
flakiness,  that  obsequious  peeling  off  (as  it  were  like  a  sea 
onion)  which  endears  your  cod's-head  and  shoulders  to 
some  appetites,  that  manly  firmness,  combined  with  a  sort 
of  womanish  coming-in-pieces  which  the  same  cod's-head 
and  shoulders  hath — where  the  whole  is  easily  separable, 
pliant  to  a  knife  or  spoon,  but  each  individual  flake  pre- 
sents a  pleasing  resistance  to  the  opposed  tooth — you  un- 
derstand me;  these  delicate  subjects  are  necessarily  ob- 
scure. 

But  it  has  a  third  flavour  of  its  own,  totally  distinct 
from  cod  or  turbot,  which  it  must  be  owned  may  to  some 
not  injudicious  palates  render  it  acceptable;  but  to  my 
unpractised  tooth  it  presented  rather  a  crude  river-fish- 
flavour,  like  your  pike  or  carp,  and  perhaps,  like  them, 
should  have  been  tamed  and  corrected  by  some  laborious 
and  well-chosen  sauce.  Still  I  always  suspect  a  fish  which 
requires  so  much  of  artificial  settings-off.  Your  choicest 
relishes  (like  native  loveliness)  need  not  the  foreign  aid 
of  ornament,  but  are,  when  unadorned  (that  is,  with 
nothing  but  a  little  plain  anchovy  and  a  squeeze  of  lemon) 
are  then  adorned  the  most.  However,  I  shall  go  to  Bright- 
on again,  next  summer,  and  shall  have  an  opportunity 
of  correcting  my  judgment,  if  it  is  not  sufficiently  in- 


^Et.  42]  CHAELES   LAMB  101 

formed.  I  can  only  say  that  when  Nature  was  pleased 
to  make  the  John  Dory  so  notoriously  deficient  in  out- 
ward graces  (as,  to  be  sure,  he  is  the  very  rhinoceros 
of  fishes,  the  ugliest  dog  that  swims,  except  perhaps  the 
sea  satyr,  which  I  never  saw,  but  which  they  say  is  terri- 
ble)— when  she  formed  him  with  so  few  external  advan- 
tages, she  might  have  bestowed  a  more  elaborate  finish 
on  his  parts  internal,  and  have  given  him  a  relish,  a 
sapor,  to  recommend  him,  as  she  made  Pope  a  poet  to 
make  up  for  making  him  crooked. 

I  am  sorry  to  find  that  you  have  got  a  knack  of  saying 
things  which  are  not  sure  to  show  your  wit.  If  I  had 
no  wit,  but  what  I  must  show  at  the  expense  of  my 

virtue  or  my  modesty,  I  had  as  lieve  be  as  stupid  as 

at  the  tea  warehouse.  Depend  upon  it,  my  dear  Cham- 
bers, that  an  ounce  of  integrity  at  our  death-bed  will 
stand  us  in  more  avail  than  all  the  wit  of  Congreve  or 

.    For  instance,  you  tell  me  a  fine  story  about  Truss, 

and  his  playing  at  Leamington,  which  I  know  to  be  false, 
because  I  have  advice  from  Derby  -that  he  was  whipt 
through  the  town  on  that  very  day  you  say  he  appeared 
in  some  character  or  other  for  robbing  an  old  woman 
at  church  of  a  seal  ring.  And  Dr.  Parr  has  been  two 
months  dead.  So  it  won't  do  to  scatter  these  random 
stories  about  among  people  that  know  anything.  Besides, 
your  forte  is  not  invention.  It  is  judgment,  particularly 
shown  in  your  choice  of  dishes.  We  seem  in  that  instance 
born  under  one  star.  I  like  you  for  liking  hare.  I  esteem 
you  for  disrelishing  minced  veal.  Liking  is  too  cold  a 
word:  I  love  you  for  your  noble  attachment  to  the  fat, 
unctuous  juices  of  deer's  flesh  and  the  green  unspeakable 
of  turtle.  I  honour  you  for  your  endeavours  to  esteem 
and  approve  of  my  favourite,  which  I  venture  to  recom- 
mend to  you  as  substitute  for  hare,  bullock's  heart,  and 
I  am  not  offended  that  you  cannot  taste  it  with  my 
palate.  A  true  son  of  Epicurus  should  reserve  one  taste 
peculiar  to  himself.  For  a  long  time  I  kept  the  secret 
about  the  exceeding  deliciousness  of  the  marrow  of  boiled 
knuckle  of  veal,  till  my  tongue  weakly  ran  out  in  its 
praises,  and  now  it  is  prostitute  and  common.  But  I 
have  made  one  discovery  which  I  will  not  impart  till  my 
dying  scene  is  over — perhaps  it  will  be  my  last  mouthful 


102  CHAELES   LAMB  [^Et.  47 

in  this  world:  delicious  thought,  enough  to  sweeten  (or 
rather  make  savoury)  the  hour  of  death.  It  is  a  little 
square  bit  about  .  this  size,  in  or 


near  the  knuckle- 

joint    of   . 

it,  nor  lean 
er;  it  is  that 
p  ound  wh  i  ch 
have  made  in 


bone  of  a  fried 
Fat  I  can't  call 
neither  altogeth- 
beautif  ul  c  o  m  - 
Nature  must 
Paradise,  Park 


Venison,  before  she  separated  the  two  substances,  the  dry 
and  the  oleaginous,  to  punish  sinful  mankind:  Adam  ate 
them  entire  and  inseparable,  and  this  little  taste  of  Eden 

in  the  knuckle-bone  of  a  fried seems  the  only  relique 

of  a  Paradisaical  state.  When  I  die,  an  exact  description 
of  its  topography  shall  be  left  in  a  cupboard  with  a  key, 
inscribed  on  which  these  words,  "C.  Lamb,  dying,  im- 
parts this  to  C.  Chambers,  as  the  only  worthy  depository 
of  such  a  secret."  You'll  drop  a  tear.  .  .  . 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 
[THE  LOSS  OP  FRIENDS] 

March  20th,  1822. 
My  dear  Wordsworth, — 

A  letter  from  you  is  very  grateful;  I  have  not  seen  a 
Kendal  postmark  so  long!  We  are  pretty  well,  save  colds 
and  rheumatics,  and  a  certain  deadness  to  everything, 
which  I  think  I  may  date  from  poor  John's  loss,  and  an- 
other accident  or  two  at  the  same  time,  that  have  made 
me  almost  bury  myself  at  Dalston,  where  yet  I  see  more 
faces  than  I  could  wish.  Deaths  overset  one,  and  put  one 
out  long  after  the  recent  grief.  Two  or  three  have  died 
within  the  last  two  twelvemonths,  and  so  many  parts  of  me 
have  been  numbed.  One  sees  a  picture,  reads  an  anecdote, 
starts  a  casual  fancy,  and  thinks  to  tell  of  it  to  this  per- 
son in  preference  to  every  other :  the  person  is  gone  whom 
it  would  have  peculiarly  suited.  It  won't  do  for  another. 
Every  departure  destroys  a  class  of  sympathies.  There's 
Captain  Burney  gone!  What  fun  has  whist  now?  What 
matters  it  what  you  lead,  if  you  can  no  longer  fancy  him 


Mt.  47]  CHAELES   LAMB  103 

looking  over  you  ?  One  never  hears  anything,  but  the  im- 
age of  the  particular  person  occurs  with  whom  alone  al- 
most you  would  care  to  share  the  intelligence.  Thus  one 
distributes  oneself  about;  and  now  for  so  many  parts  of 
me  I  have  lost  the  market.  Common  natures  do  not  suffice 
me.  Good  people,  as  they  are  called,  will  not  serve.  I 
want  individuals.  I  am  made  up  of  queer  points,  and  I 
want  so  many  answering  needles.  The  going  away  of 
friends  does  not  make  the  remainder  more  precious.  It 
takes  so  much  from  them  as  there  was  a  common  link. 
A.  B.  and  C.  make  a  party.  A.  dies.  B.  not  only  loses  A. ; 
but  all  A.'s  part  in  C.  C.  loses  A.'s  part  in  B.,  and  so 
the  alphabet  sickens  by  subtraction  of  interchangeables. 
I  express  myself  muddily,  capite  dolente.  I  have  a  dulling 
cold.  My  theory  is  to  enjoy  life,  but  my  practice  is 
against  it.  I  grow  ominously  tired  of  official  confinement. 
Thirty  years  have  I  served  the  Philistines,  and  my  neck  is 
not  subdued  to  the  yoke.  You  don't  know  how  wearisome 
it  is  to  breathe  the  air  of  four  pent  walls  without  relief, 
day  after  day,  all  the  golden  hours  of  the  day  between  ten 
and  four,  without  ease  or  interposition.  Tcedet  me  harum 
quotidianarum  formarum,  these  pestilential  clerk-faces  al- 
ways in  one's  dish.  Oh  for  a  few  years  between  the  grave 
and  the  desk! — they  are  the  same,  save  at  the  latter  you 

are   the    outside    machine.      The    foul    enchanter*   , 

("letters  four  do  form  his  name" — Busirane  is  his  name  in 
hell,)  that  has  curtailed  you  of  some  domestic  comforts, 
hath  laid  a  heavier  hand  on  me,  not  in  present  infliction, 
but  in  taking  away  the  hope  of  enfranchisement.  I  dare 
not  whisper  to  myself  a  pension  on  this  side  of  absolute 
incapacitation  and  infirmity,  till  years  have  sucked  me 
dry ; — Otium  cum  indignitate.  I  had  thought  in  a  green  old 
age  (Oh  t  green  thought !)  to  have  retired  to  Bonder's  End, 
(emblematic  name,  how  beautiful!)  in  the  Ware  Road, 
there  to  have  made  up  my  accounts  with  heaven  and  the 
company,  toddling  about  between  it  and  Cheshunt;  anon 
stretching,  on  some  fine  Izaak  Walton  morning,  to  Hoddes- 
dbn  or  Amwell,  careless  as  a  beggar;  but  walking,  walking 
ever  till  I  fairly  walked  myself  off  my  legs,  dying  walking ! 


*  Joseph   Hume,   M.P.,   who   had   attacked   abuses   in   the  East   India 

impany   (Lucas) . 

t  Andrew  Marvell's  The  Garden. 


104  CHARLES   LAMB  [^Et.  47 

The  hope  is  gone.  I  sit  like  Philomel  all  day  (but  not 
singing),  with  my  breast  against  this  thorn  of  a  desk,  with 
the  only  hope  that  some  pulmonary  affliction  may  relieve 
me.  Vide  Lord  Palmerston's  report  of  the  clerks  in  the 
War  Office,  (Debates  in  this  morning's  Times,)  by  which 
it  appears,  in  twenty  years  as  many  clerks  have  been 
coughed  and  catarrhed  out  of  it  into  their  freer  graves. 
Thank  you  for  asking  about  the  pictures.  Milton  hangs 
over  my  fire-side  in  Covent  Garden,  (when  I  am  there,) 
the  rest  have  been  sold  for  an  old  song,  wanting  the  elo- 
quent tongue  that  should  have  set  them  off!  You  have 
gratified  me  with  liking  my  meeting  with  Dodd.  For  the 
Malvolio  story — the  thing  is  become  in  verity  a  sad  task, 
and  I  eke  it  out  with  anything.  If  I  could  slip  out  of 
it  I  should  be  happy,  but  our  chief -reputed  assistants  have 
forsaken  us.  •  The  Opium-Eater  crossed  us  once  with  a 
dazzling  path,  and  hath  as  suddenly  left  us  darkling;  and, 
in  short,  I  shall  go  on  from  dull  to  worse,  because  I  cannot 
resist  the  booksellers'  importunity — the  old  plea  you  know 
of  authors,  but  I  believe  on  my  part  sincere.  Hartley  I 
do  not  so.  of  ten  see:  but  I  never  see  him  in  unwelcome 
hour.  I  thoroughly  love  and  honour  him.  I  send  you  a 
frozen  epistle,  but  it  is  Winter  and  dead  time  of  the  year 
with  me.  May  heaven  keep  something  like  Spring  and 
Summer  up  with  you,  strengthen  your  eyes,  and  make 
mine  a  little  lighter  to  encounter  with  them,  as  I  hope 
they  shall  yet  and  again,  before  all  are  closed. 

Yours,  with  every  kind  remembrance, 

C.  L. 
[^Et.  47] 

To  MR.  AND  MRS.  BRUTON 
[THANKS  FOR  A  PIG] 

Twelfth  Day,  '23. 

The  pig  was  above  my  feeble  praise.  It  was  a  dear 
pigmy.  There  was  some  contention  as  to  who  should  have 
the  ears;  but,  in  spite  of  his  obstinacy,  (deaf  as  these 
little  creatures  are  to  advice,)  I  contrived  to  get  at  one 
of  them. 

It  came  in  bpots  too,  which  I  took  as  a  favour.  Gener- 
ally these  pretty  toes,  pretty  toes!  are  missing;  but  I  sup- 
pose he  wore  them  to  look  taller. 


47]  CHARLES   LAMB  105- 

He  must  have  been  the  least  of  his  race.  -His  little- 
foots  would  have  gone  into  the  silver  slipper.  I  take  him 
to  have  been  a  Chinese  and  a  female. 

If  Evelyn  could  have  seen  him,  he  would  never  hav& 
farrowed  two  such  prodigious  volumes;  seeing  how  much 
good  can  be  contained  in — how  small  a  compass! 

He  crackled  delicately. 

I  left  a  blank  at  the  top  of  niy  letter,  not  being  de- 
termined which  to  address  it  to:  so  farmer  and  farmer's- 
j  wife  will  please  to  divide  our  thanks.  May  your  granaries- 
be  full,  and  your  rats  empty,  and  your  chickens  plump,, 
and  your  envious  neighbours  lean,  and  your  labourers  busyr 
and  you  as  idle  and  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long ! 

Vive  P Agriculture ! 
How  do  you  make  your  pigs  so  little? 
They  are  vastly  engaging  at  the  age: 

I  was  so  myself. 

Now  I  am  a  disagreeable  old  hog, 
A  middle-aged  gentleman-and-a-half , 
My  faculties  (thank  God!)  are  not  much  impaired. 

I  have  my  sight,  hearing,  taste,  pretty  perfect;  and  caa 
read  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  common  type,  by  the  help  of  a 
candle,  without  making  many  mistakes. 

Believe  me,  that  while  my  faculties  last,  I  shall  ever 
cherish  a  proper  appreciation  of  your  many  kindnesses 
in  this  way,  and  that  the  last  lingering  relish  of  past 
favours  upon  my  dying  memory  will  be  the  smack  of  that 
little  ear.  It  was  the  left  ear,  which  is  lucky.  Many 
happy  returns,  not  of  the  pig,  but  of  the  New  Year,  to- 
both!  Mary,  for  her  share  of  the  pig  and  the  memoirs,, 
desires  to  send  the  same. 

Yours  truly, 

0.  LAMB. 


106  CHAKLES    LAMB  [Mi.  48 

.  48]    •  , 


To  MlSS   HlJTCHINSON 

[MARY  LAMB'S  HANDWRITING] 

[April  25,  1823.] 
Dear  Miss  H.,  — 

Mary  has  such  an  invincible  reluctance  to  any  epistolary 
exertion,  that  I  am  sparing  her  a  mortification  by  taking 
the  pen  from  her.  The  plain  truth  is,  she  writes  such  a 
pimping,  mean,  detestable  hand,  that  she  is  ashamed  of 
the  formation  of  her  letters.  There  is  an  essential  poverty 
and  abjectness  in  the  frame  of  them.  They  look  like 
begging  letters.  And  then  she  is  sure  to  omit  a  most 
substantial  word  in  the  second  draught  (for  she  never 
ventures  an  epistle  without  a  foul  copy  first,)  which  is 
obliged  to  be  interlined;  which  spoils  the  neatest  epistle, 
you  know.  Her  figures,  1,  2,  3,  4,  &c.,  where  she  has 
occasion  to  express  numerals,  as  in  the  date,  (25th  April 
1823,)  are  not  figures,  but  figurantes;  and  the  combined 
posse  go  staggering  up  and  down  shameless,  as  drunkards 
in  the  day-time.  It  is  no  better  when  she  rules  her  paper. 
Her  lines  "are  not  less  erring"  than  her  words.  A  sort 
of  unnatural  parallel  lines,  that  are  perpetually  threaten- 
ing to  meet;  which,  you  know,  is  quite  contrary  to  Euclid. 
Her  very  blots  are  not  bold  like  this,  [here  a  large  Not  is 
inserted,]  but  poor  smears,  half  left  in  and  half  scratched 
out,  with  another  smear  left  in  their  place.  I  like  a  clear 
letter;  a  bold  free  hand,  and  a  fearless  flourish.  Then  she 
has  always  to  go  through  them  (a  second  operation)  to 
dot  her  i'a  and  cross  her  fs.  I  don't  think  she  can  make  a 
corkscrew  if  she  tried,  which  has  such  a  fine  effect  at 
the  end  or  middle  of  an  epistle,  and  fills  up. 

There  is  a  corkscrew!  —  one  of  the  best  I  ever  drew. 
By  the  way,  what  incomparable  whisky  that  was  of  Monk- 
house's  !  But  if  I  am  to  write  a  letter,  let  me  begin,  and 
not  stand  nourishing,  like  a  fencer  at  a  fair. 


April  25th,  1823. 
Dear  Miss  H., — 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  (the  letter  now  begins)  to 
hear  that  you  got  down  so  smoothly,  and  that  Mrs.  Monk- 


vffit.  49]  CHARLES    LAMB  107 

house's  spirits  are  so  good  and  enterprising.  It  shows 
whatever  her  posture  may  be,  that  her  mind  at  least  is  not 
supine.  I  hope  the  excursion  will  enable  the  former  to 
keep  pace  with  its  outstripping  neighbour.  Pray  present 
our  kindest  wishes  to  her  and  all;  (that  sentence  should 
properly  have  come  into  the  Postscript,  but  we  airy 
mercurial  spirits,  there  is  no  keeping  us  in.)  "Time"  (as 
was  said  of  one  of  us*)  "toils  after  us  in  vain."  I  am 
afraid  our  co-visit  with  Coleridge  was  a  dream.  I  shall 
not  get  away  before  the  end  (or  middle)  of  June,  and 
then  you  will  be  frog-hopping  at  Boulogne;  and  besides,  I 
think  the  Gilmans  would  scarce  trust  him  with  us;  I  have 
a  malicious  knack  at  cutting  of  apron-strings.  The  Saints7 
days  you  speak  of  have  long  since  fled  to  heaven,  with 
AstraBa,  and  the  cold  piety  of  the  age  lacks  fervour  to  re- 
call them;  only  Peter  left  his  key — the  iron  one  of  the 
two  that  "shuts  amain" — and  that  is  the  reason  I  am 
locked  up.  Meanwhile  of  afternoons  we  pick  up  primroses 
at  Dalston,  and  Mary  corrects  me  when  I  call  'em  cowslips. 
God  bless  you  all;  and  pray  remember  me  euphoniously 
to  Mr.  Gruvellegan.  That  Lee  Priory  must  be  a  dainty 
bower.  Is  it  built  of  flints? — and  does  it  stand  at  Kings- 
gate? 


.  49] 

To  BERNARD  BARTON 
[WILLIAM  BLAKE;  LORD  BYRON] 

[Postmark,  May  15,  1824.] 
Dear  B.  B.,— 

I  am  oppressed  with  business  all  day  and  Company  all 
night.  But  I  will  snatch  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Your 
recent  acquisitions  of  the  Picture  and  the  Letter  are 
greatly  to  be  congratulated.  I  too  have  a  picture  of  my 
father  and  the  copy  of  his  first  Love  verses,  but  they 
have  been  mine  long.  Blake  is  a  real  name,  I  assure  you, 
and  a  most  extraordinary  man,  if  he  be  still  living.  He 
is  the  Robert  Blake,f  whose  wild  designs  accompany  a 

*  Shakespeare.      Dr.    Johnson's    Prologue    at    the    Opening    of    Drury 
Lane  Theatre. 
t  William   Blake. 


108  CHAKLES   LAMB  [^Et.  49 

splendid  folio  edition  of  the  "Night  Thoughts,"  which  you 
may  have  seen,  in  one  of  which  he  pictures  the  parting 
of  soul  and  body  by  a  solid  mass  of  human  form  floating  off 
God  knows  how  from  a  lumpish  mass  (fac  Simile  to  itself) 
left  behind  on  the  dying  bed.  He  paints  in  water  colours, 
marvellous  strange  pictures,  visions  of  his  brain  which  he 
.asserts  that  he  has  seen.  They  have  great  merit.  He  has 
seen  the  old  Welsh  bards  on  Snowden — he  has  seen  the 
Beautifullest,  the  Strongest,  and  the  Ugliest  Man,  left 
alone  from  the  Massacre  of  the  Britons  by  the  Romans, 
and  has  painted  them  from  memory  (I  have  seen  his  paint- 
ings) and  asserts  them  to  be  as  good  as  the  figures  of 
Raphael  and  Angelo,  but  not  better,  as  they  had  precisely 
the  same  retro-visions  and  prophetic  visions  with  [himself.] 
The  painters  in  Oil  (which  he  will  have  it  that  neither 
of  them  practised)  he  affirms  to  have  been  the  ruin  of 
art,  and  affirms  that  all  the  while  he  was  engaged  in  his 
Water-paintings,  Titian  was  disturbing  him,  Titian  the 
111  Genius  of  Oil  Painting.  His  pictures,  one  in  particu- 
lar, the  Canterbury  Pilgrims  (far  above  Stothard's)  have 
great  merit,  but  hard,  dry,  yet  with  grace.  He  has  writ- 
ten a  Catalogue  of  them,  with  a  most  spirited  criticism 
on  Chaucer,  but  mystical  and  full  of  Vision.  His  poems 
have  been  sold  hitherto  only  in  manuscript.  I  never 
read  them,  but  a  friend  at  my  desire  procured  the  Sweep 
Song.  There  is  one  to  a  Tiger,  which  I  have  heard 
recited,  beginning 

"Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright, 
Thro'  the  desarts  of  the  night"  * 

which  is  glorious.  But  alas!  I  have  not  the  Book,  for 
the  man  is  flown,  whither  I  know  not,  to  Hades,  or  a 
Mad  House. — But  I  must  look  on  him  as  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  persons  of  the  age.  Montgomery's  Book  I 
have  not  much  hope  from.  The  Society,  with  the  affected 
name,  have  been  labouring  at  it  for  these  twenty  years, 
and  made  few  converts.  I  think  it  was  injudicious  to 
mix  stories  avowedly  colour'd  by  fiction  with  the  sad 
true  statements  from  the  parliamentary  records,  &c.,  but 

*  "In  the  forests  of  the  night." 


Mt.  49]  CHAKLES    LAMB  109 

I  wish  the  little  Negroes  all  the  good  that  can  come  from 
it.  I  fratter'd  my  brains  (not  butter'd  them — but  it  is 
a  bad  a)  for  a  few  verses  for  them,  but  I  could  make 
nothing  of  it.  You  have  been  luckier.  But  Blake's  are 
the  flower'  of  the  set  you  will,  I  am  sure,  agree,  tho' 
some  of  Montgomery's  at  the  end  are  pretty — but  the 
Dream  awkwardly  paraphras'd  from  B. 

With  the  exception  of  an  Epilogue  for  a  Private  Theat- 
rical, I  have  written  nothing  now  for  near  six  months. 
It  is  in  vain  to  spur  me  on.  I  must  wait.  I  cannot  write 
without  a  genial  impulse,  and  I  have  none.  'Tis  barren 
all  and  dearth.  No  matter,  life  is  something  without 
scribbling.  I  have  got  rid  of  my  bad  spirits,  and  hold  up 
pretty  well  this  rain-damn'd  May. 

So  we  have  lost  another  Poet.  I  never  much  relished 
Iris  Lordship's  mind,  and  shall  be  sorry  if  the  Greeks  have 
cause  to  miss  him.  He  was  to  me  offensive,  and  I  never 
can  make  out  his  great  power,  which  his  admirers  talk 
of.  Why,  a  line  of  Wordsworth  is  a  lever  to  lift  the  im- 
mortal spirit  1  Byron's  can  only  move  the  Spleen.  He 
was  at  best  a  Satyr ist — in  any  other  way  he  was  mean 
enough.  I  daresay  I  do  him  injustice;  but  I  cannot  love 
him,  nor  squeeze  a  tear  to  his  memory.  He  did  not  like 
the  world,  and  he  has  left  it,  as  Alderman  Curtis  ad- 
vised the  Radicals,  "if  they  don't  like  their  country, 
damn  'em,  let  'em  leave  it" — they  possessing  no  rood  of 
Ground  in  England,  and  he  ten  thousand  acres.  Byron 
was  better  than  many  Curtises. 

Farewell.  Accept  this  Apology  for  a  Letter  from  one 
who  owes  you  so  much  in  that  kind. 

Yours  ever  truly, 

O.L. 
B.  Barton,  Esq., 

Woodbridge,  Suffolk. 


110  CHARLES    LAMB  [^Et.  50 

.  50] 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

[HIS  RELEASE  AND  PENSION] 

COLEBROOK  COTTAGE,  6th  April,  1825. 
Dear  Wordsworth,  — 

I  have  been  several  times  meditating  a  letter  to  you 
concerning  the  good  thing  which  has  befallen  me,  but 
the  thought  of  poor  Monkhouse  came  across  me.  He 
was  one  that  I  had  exulted  in  the  prospect  of  congratu- 
lating me.  He  and  you  were  to  have  been  the  first  par- 
ticipators, for  indeed  it  has  been  ten  weeks  since  the 
first  motion  of  it.  Here  am  I  then,  after  thirty-three 
years'  slavery,  sitting  in  my  own  room  at  eleven  o'clock 
this  finest  of  all  April  mornings,  a'  freed  man,  with 
£441  a  year  for  the  remainder  of  my  life,  live  I  as  long 
as  John  Dennis,  who  outlived  his  annuity  and  starved 
at  ninety:  £441,  i.e.,  £450,  with  a  deduction  of  £9  for  a 
provision  secured  to  my  sister,  she  being  survivor,  the 
pension  guaranteed  by  Act  Georgii  Tertii,  &c. 

I  came  home  For  Ever  on  Tuesday  in  last  week.  The 
incomprehensibleness  of  my  condition  overwhelmed  me. 
It  was  like  passing  from  life  into  eternity.  Every  year 
to  be  as  long  as  three,  i.e.,  to  have  three  times  as  much  real 
time  (time  that  is  my  own)  in  it!  I  wandered  about 
thinking  I  was  happy,  but  feeling  I  was  not.  But  that 
tumultuousness  is  passing  off,  and  I  begin  to  understand 
the  nature  of  the  gift.  Holydays,  even  the  annual  month, 
were  always  uneasy  joys;  their  conscious  f  ugitiveness  ; 
the  craving  after  making  the  most  of  them.  Now,  when 
all  is  holyday,  there  are  no  holydays.  I  can  sit  at  home, 
in  rain  or  shine,  without  a  restless  impulse  for  walkings. 
I  am  daily  steadying,  and  shall  soon  find  it  as  natural 
to  me  to  be  my  own  master,  as  it  has  been  irksome  to 
have  had  a  master.  Mary  wakes  every  morning  with  an 
obscure  feeling  that  some  good  has  happened  to  us. 

Leigh  Hunt  and  Montgomery,  after  their  releasements, 
describe  the  shock  of  their  emancipation  much  as  I  feel 
mine.  But  it  hurt  their  frames.  I  eat,  drink,  and 
sleep  as  sound  as  ever.  I  lay  no  anxious  schemes  for 
goine:  hither  and  thither,  but  take  things  as  they  occur. 
Yesterdav  T  excnrsioned  twenty  miles;  to-day  I  write 


Mt.  50]  CHARLES    LAMB  111 

a  few  letters.  Pleasuring  was  for  fugitive  play-days; 
mine  are  fugitive  only  in  the  sense  that  life  is  fugitive. 
Freedom  and  life  coexistent! 

At  the  foot  of  such  a  call  upon  you  for  gratulation, 
I  am  ashamed  to  advert  to  that  melancholy  event.  Monk- 
house  was  a  character  I  learned  to  love  slowly,  but  it 
grew  upon  me,  yearly,  monthly,  daily.  What  a  chasm 
has  it  made  in  our  pleasant  parties!  His  noble  friendly 
face  was  always  coming  before  me,  till  this  hurrying 
event  in  my  life  came,  and  for  the  time  has  absorbed 
all  interest;  in  fact  it  has  shaken  me  a  little.  My  old 
desk  companions,  with  whom  I  have  had  such  merry 
hours,  seem  to  reproach  me  for  removing  my  lot  from 
among  them.  They  were  pleasant  creatures;  but  to 
the  anxieties  of  business,  and  a  weight  of  possible  worse 
ever  impending,  I  was  not  equal.  Tuthill  and  Oilman 
gave  me  my  certificates.  I  laughed  at  the  friendly  lie 
implied  in  them;  but  my  sister  shook  her  head,  and  said 
it  was  all  true.  Indeed,  this  last  Winter  I  was  jaded 
out:  Winters  were  always  worse  than  other  parts  of  the 
year,  because  the  spirits  are  worse,  and  I  had  no  day- 
light. In  Summer  I  had  day-light  evenings.  The  relief 
was  hinted  to  me  from  a  superior  power,  when  I,  poor 
slave,  had  not  a  hope  but  that  I  must  wait  another  seven 
years  with  Jacob:  and  lo!  the  Rachel  which  I  coveted  is 
brought  to  me! 

Have  you  read  the  noble  dedication  of  Irving's  "Mis- 
sionary Orations"  to  S.  T.  C.?  Who  shall  call  this  man 
a  quack  hereafter  ?  What  the  Kirk  will  think  of  it  neither 
I  nor  Irving  care.  When  somebody  suggested  to  him  that 
it  would  not  be  likely  to  do-  him  good,  videlicet,  among 
his  own  people,  "That  is  a  reason  for  doing  it,"  was  his 
noble  answer.  That  Irving  thinks  he  has  profited  mainly 
by  S.  T.  C.,  I  have  no  doubt.  The  very  style  of  the 
Dedication  shows  it. 

Communicate  my  news  to  Southey,  and  beg  his  pardon 
for  my  being  so  long  acknowledging  his  kind  present  of 
the  "Church,"  which  circumstances,  having  no  reference 
to  himself,  prevented  at  the  time.  Assure  him  of  my 
deep  respect  and  friendliest  feelings. 

Divide  the  same,  or  rather  each  take  the  whole  to  you 


112  CHARLES   LAMB  [^Et.  51 

— I  mean  you   and   all  yours.     To   Miss  Hutchinson  I 
must  write  separate. 

Farewell!  and  end  at  last,  long  selfish  letter. 

C.  LAMB. 

[^Et.  51] 

To  J.  B.  DIBDIN 
[DIBDIN'S  RAINY  SUNDAY] 
An  answer  is  requested. 

Saturday,  September  9,  1826. 
Dear  D.,— 

I  have  observed  that  a  Letter  is  never  more  acceptable 
than  when  received  upon  a  rainy  day,  especially  a  rainy 
Sunday;  which  moves  me  to  send  you  somewhat,  however 
short.  This  will  find  you  sitting  after  Breakfast,  which 
you  will  have  prolonged  as  far  as  you  can  with  consistency 
to  the  poor  hand-maid  that  has  the  reversion  of  the  Tea 
Leaves;  making  two  nibbles  of  your  last  morsel  of  stale 
roll  (you  cannot  have  new  ones  on  the  Sabbath),  and 
reluctantly  coming  to  an  end,  because  when  that  is  done, 
what  can  you  do  till  dinner?  You  cannot  go  to  the 
Beach,  for  the  rain  is  drowning  the  sea,  turning  rank 
Thetis  fresh,  taking  the  brine  out  of  Neptune's  pickles, 
while  mermaids  sit  upon  rocks  with  umbrellas,  their  ivory 
combs  sheathed  for  spoiling  in  the  wet  of  waters  foreign 
to  them.  You  cannot  go  to  the  library,  for  it's  shut. 
You  are  not  religious  enough  to  go  to  church.  O  it's 
worth  while  to  cultivate  piety  to  the  gods,  to  have  some- 
thing to  fill  up  the  heart  on  a  wet  Sunday!  You  cannot 
cast  accounts,  for  your  ledger  is  being  eaten  with  moths 
in  the  Ancient  Jewry.  You  cannot  play  at  draughts, 
for  there  is  none  to  play  with  you,  and  besides  there  is 
not  a  draught-board  in  the  house.  You  cannot  go  to 
market,  for  it  closed  last  night.  You  cannot  look  into 
the  shops, — their  backs  are  shut  upon  you.  You  cannot 
read  the  Bible,  for  it  is  not  good  reading  for  the  sick  and 
hypochondriacal.  You  cannot  while  away  an  hour  with 
a  friend,  for  you  have  no  friend  round  that  Wrekin. 
You  cannot  divert  yourself  with  a  stray  acquaintance, 
for  you  have  picked  none  up.  You  cannot  bear  the 
chiming  of  Bells,  for  they  invite  you  to  a  banquet  where 


51]  CHARLES   LAMB  113 

you  are  no  visitant.  You  cannot  cheer  yourself  with  the 
prospect  of  to-morrow's  letter,  for  none  come  on  Mon- 
days. You  cannot  count  those  endless  vials  on  the 
mantelpiece  with  any  hope  of  making  a  variation  in  their 
numbers.  You  have  counted  your  spiders:  your  Bastile 
is  exhausted.  You  sit  and  deliberately  curse  your  hard 
exile  from  all  familiar  sights  and  sounds.  Old  Ranking 
poking  in  his  head  unexpectedly  would  just  now  be  as 
good  to  you  as  Grimaldi.  Anything  to  deliver  you  from 
this  intolerable  weight  of  Ennui.  You  are  too  ill  to 
shake  it  off:  not  ill  enough  to  submit  to  it,  and  to  lie 
down  as  a  lamb  under  it.  The  Tyranny  of  sickness  is 
nothing  to  the  Cruelty  of  Convalescence:  'tis  to  have 
Thirty  Tyrants  for  one.  That  pattering  rain  drops  on 
your  brain.  You'll  be  worse  after  dinner,  for  you  must 
dine  at  one  to-day,  that  Betty  may  go  to  afternoon  serv- 
ice. She  insists  upon  having  her  chopped  hay.  And 
then  when  she  goes  out,  who  was  something  to  you,  some- 
thing to  speak  to — what  an  interminable  afternoon  you'll 
have  to  go  thro'.  You  can't  break  yourself  from  your 
locality:  you  cannot  say  "to-morrow  I  set  off  for  Ban- 
stead,  by  God":  for  you  are  booked  for  Wednesday. 
Foreseeing  this,  I  thought  a  cheerful  letter  would  come  in 
opportunely.  If  any  of  the  little  topics  for  mirth  I  have 
thought  upon  should  serve  you  in  this  utter  extinguish- 
ment of  sunshine,  to  make  you  a  little  merry,  I  shall 
have  had  my  ends.  I  love  to  make  things  comfortable. 
.  .  .  This,  which  is  scratched  out,  was  the  most  material 
thing  I  had  to  say,  but  on  maturer  thoughts  I  defer  it. 

P.S. — We  are  just  sitting  down  to  dinner  with  a  pleas- 
ant party,  Coleridge,  Reynolds  the  dramatist,  and  Sam 
Bloxam:  to-morrow  (that  is  to-day),  Liston,  and  Wyat 
of  the  Wells,  dine  with  .us.  May  this  find  you  as  jolly 
and  freakish  as  we  mean  to  be. 

0.  LAMB. 
Addressed 

T.  Dibdin,  Esq., 
No.  4,  Meadow  Cottages, 
Hastings. 


114  CHARLES    LAMB  JJEt.  52 

52] 


To  P.  G.  PATMORE 
[AFTER  A  FUNERAL] 

LONDRES,  Julie  19,  1827. 
Dear  P.,— 

I  am  so  poorly.  I  have  been  to  a  funeral,  where  I 
made  a  pun,  to  the  consternation  of  the  rest  of  the 
mourners.  And  we  had  wine.  I  can't  describe  to  you 
the  howl  which  the  widow  set  up  at  proper  intervals. 
Dash  could,  for  it  was  not  unlike  what  he  makes. 

The  letter  I  sent  you  was  one  directed  to  the  care  of 
E.  W  -  ,  India  House,  for  Mrs.  H.  Which  Mrs.  H  - 
I  don't  yet  know;  but  A  -  has  taken  it  to  France  on 
speculation.  Really  it  is  embarrassing.  There  is  Mrs. 
present  H.,  Mrs.  late  H.,  and  Mrs.  John  H.,  and  to  which 
of  the  three  Mrs.  Wigginses  it  appertains,  I  know  not. 
I  wanted  to  open  it,  but  'tis  transportation. 

I  am  sorry  you  are  plagued  about  your  book.  I  would 
strongly  recommend  you  to  take  for  one  story  Massinger's 
Old  Law.  It  is  exquisite.  I  can  think  of  no  other. 

Dash  is  frightful  this  morning.  He  whines  and  stands 
up  on  his  hind  legs.  He  misses  Becky,  who  is  gone  to 
town.  I  took  him  to  Barnet  the  other  day,  and  he 
couldn't  eat  his  vittles  after  it.  Pray  God  his  intel- 
lectuals be  not  slipping. 

Mary  is  gone  out  for  some  soles.  I  suppose  'tis  no  use 
to  ask  you  to  come  and  partake  of  'em;  else  there  is  a 
steam  vessel. 

I  am  doing  a  tragi-comedy  in  two  acts,  and  have  got 
on  tolerably;  but  it  will  be  refused,  or  worse.  I  never 
had  luck  with  anything  my  name  was  put  to. 

O,  I  am  so  poorly!  I  waked  it  at-  my  cousin's  the 
bookbinder,  who  is  now  with  God;  or,  if  he  is  not,  'tis  no 
fault  of  mine. 

We  hope  the  frank  wines  do  not  disagree  with  Mrs. 
P  --  .  By  the  way,  I  like  her. 

Did  you  ever  taste  frogs  ?  Get  them  if  you  can.  They 
are  like  little  Lilliput  rabbits,  only  a  thought  nicer. 

How  sick  I  am!  —  not  of  the  world,  but  of  the  widow's 
shrub.  She's  sworn  under  £6,000,  but  I  think  she  per- 


52]  CHAELES   LAMB  115- 

jured  herself.  She  howls  in  E  la,  and  I  comfort  her  in. 
B  flat.  You  understand  music? 

If  you  hav'n't  got  Massinger,  you  have  nothing  to  de- 
but go  to  the  first  Bibliotheque  you  can  light  upon  at 
Boulogne,  and  ask  for  it  (Gilford's  edition) ;  and  if  they 
hav'n't  got  it  you  can  have  "Athalie"  par  Monsieur  Ra- 
cine, and  make  the  best  of  it.  But  that  Old  Law  is 
delicious. 

"No  shrimps!"  (that's  in  answer  to  Mary's  question 
about  how  the  soles  are  to  be  done). 

I  am  uncertain  where  this  wandering  letter  may  reach, 
you.  What  you  mean  by  Poste  Restante,  God  knows. 
Do  you  mean  I  must  pay  the  postage  ?  So  I  do,  to  Dover. 

We  had  a  merry  passage  with  the  widow  at  the  Com- 
mons. She  was  howling — part  howling  and  part  giving; 
directions  to  the  proctor — when  crash!  down  went  my 
sister  through  a  crazy  chair,  and  made  the  clerks  grin, 
and  I  grinned,  and  the  widow  tittered,  and  then  I  knew 
that  she  was  not  inconsolable.  Mary  was  more  fright- 
ened than  hurt. 

She'd  make  a  good  match  for  any  body  (by  she  I  mean 
the  widow).  ^ 

"If  he  bring  but  a  relict  away, 
He  is  happy,  nor  heard  to  complain." 

Shenstone. 

Proctor  has  got  a  wen  growing  out  at  the  nape  of  his 
neck,  which  his  wife  wants  him  to  have  cut  off;  but  I 
think  it  is  rather  an  agreeable  excrescence:  like  his 
poetry,  redundant.  Hone  has  hanged  himself  -for  debt. 
Godwin  was  taken  up  for  picking  pockets.  Moxon  has- 
fallen  in  love  with  Emma,  our  nut-brown  maid.  Becky 
takes  to  bad  courses.  Her  father  was  blown  up  in  a 
steam  machine.  The  coroner  found  it  "insanity.**  I 
should  not  like  him  to  sit  on  my  letter. 

Do  you  observe  my  direction.  Is  it  Gallic-classical? 
Do  try  and  get  some  frogs.  You  must  ask  for  "gre- 
nouilles"  (green  eels).  They  don't  understand  "frogs," 
though  'tis  a  common  phrase  with  us. 

If  you  go  through  Bulloign  (Boulogne),  inquire  if  old 
Godfrey  is  living,  and  how  he  got  home  from  the  cru- 
sades. He  must  be  a  very  old  man. 


116  CHARLES    LAMB  [Mt.  54 

If  there  is  anything  new  in  politics  or  literature  in 
France,  keep  it  till  I  see  you  again,  for  I'm  in  no  hurry. 
Chatty  Briant*  is  well,  I  hope. 

I  think  I  have  no  more  news;  only  give  both  our  loves 
(all  three,  says  Dash,)  to  Mrs.  P  -  ,  and  bid  her  get 
quite  well,  as  I  am  at  present,  bating  qualms,  and  the 
grief  incident  to  losing  a  valuable  relation. 

0.  L. 


To  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 
[BOARDING  IN  A  VILLAGE] 

ENFIELD,  Jan.  22nd,  1830. 

And  is  it  a  year  since  we  parted  from  you  at  the  steps 
of  Edmonton  stage?  There  are  not  now  the  years  that 
there  used  to  be.  The  tale  of  the  dwindled  age  of  men, 
reported  of  successional  mankind,  is  true  of  the  same 
man  only.  We  do  not  live  a  year  in  a  year  now.  'Tig 
a  punctum  stans.  The  seasons  pass  us  with  indifference. 
Spring  cheers  not,  nor  Winter  heightens  our  gloom;  Au- 
tumn hath  foregone  its  moralities,  —  they  are  "hey-pass 
repass,"  as  in  a  show-box.  Yet,  as  far  as  last  year  oc- 
curs back,  —  for  they  scarce  show  a  reflex  now,  they  make 
no  memory  as  heretofore,  —  'twas  sufficiently  gloomy.  Let 
the  sullen  nothing  pass.  Suffice  it,  that  after  sad  spirits, 
prolonged  through  many  of  its  months,  as  it  called  them, 
we  have  cast  our  skins;  have  taken  a  farewell  of  the 
pompous,  troublesome  trifle,  called  house-keeping,  and 
are  settled  down  into  poor  boarders  and  lodgers  at  next 
door  with  an  old  couple,  the  Baucis  and  Baucida  of  dull 
Enfield.  Here  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  our  victuals 
but  to  eat  them;  with  the  garden  but  to  see  it  grow; 
with"  the  tax-gatherer  but  to  hear  him  knock  ;  with  the 
maid  but  to  hear  her  scolded.  Scot  and  lot,  butcher, 
baker,  are  things  unknown  to  us,  save  as  spectators  of  the 
pageant.  We  are  fed  we  know  not  how;  quietists  —  con- 
fiding ravens.  We  have  otium  pro  dignitate,  a  respectable 
insignificance.  Yet  in  the  self-condemned  obliviousness, 
in  the  stagnation,  some  molesting  yearnings  of  life,  not 

*  Chateaubriand. 


JEt.  54]  CHAKLES   LAMB  117 

quite  killed,  rise,  prompting  me  that  there  was  a  London, 
and  that  I  was  of  that  old  Jerusalem.  In  dreams  I  am  in 
Fleet  Market,  but  I  wake  and  cry  to  sleep  again.  I  die 
hard,  a  stubborn  Eloisa  in  this  detestable  Paraclete. 
What  have  I  gained  by  health?  Intolerable  dulness. 
What  by  early  hours  and  moderate  meals  ?  A  total  blank. 
O  never  let  the  lying  poets  be  believed,  who  'tice  men 
from  the  cheerful  haunts  of  streets,  or  think  they  mean 
it  not  of  a  country  village.  In  the  ruins  of  Palmyra  I 
could  gird  myself  up  to  solitude,  or  muse  to  the  snorings 
of  the  Seven  Sleepers;  but  to  have  a  little  teazing  image 
of  a  town  about  one;  country  folks  that  do  not  look  like 
country  folks;  shops  two  yards  square,  half-a-dozen  ap- 
ples, and  two  penn'orth  of  overlooked  ginger-bread  for  the 
lofty  fruiterers  of  Oxford  Street;  and,  for  the  immortal 
book  and  print  stalls,  a  circulating  library  that  stands 
still,  where  the  show-picture  is  a  last  year's  Valentine, 
and  whither  the  fame  of  the  last  ten  Scotch  novels  has  not 
yet  travelled, — (marry,  .they  just  begin  to  be  conscious 
of  the  Redgauntlet  :*) — to  have  a  new  plastered  flat 
church,  and  to  be  wishing  that  it  was  but  a  cathedral! 
The  very  blackguards  here  are  degenerate;  the  topping 
gentry  stock-brokers;  the  passengers  too  many  to  insure 
your  quiet,  or  let  you  go  about  whistling  or  gaping,  too 
few  to  be  the  fine  indifferent  pageants  of  Fleet  Street. 
Confining,  room-keeping,  thickest  Winter,  is  yet  more 
bearable  here  than  the  gaudy  months.  Among  one's 
books  at  one's  fire  by  candle,  one  is  soothed  into  an 
oblivion  that  one  is  not  in  the  country;  but  with  the 
light  the  green  fields  return,  till  I  gaze,  and  in  a  calenture 
can  plunge  myself  into  St.  Giles's.  O  let  no  native 
Londoner  imagine  that  health,  and  rest,  and  innocent 
occupation,  interchange  of  converse  sweet,  and  recreative 
study,  can  make  the  country  anything  better  than  alto- 
gether odious  and  detestable !  A  garden  was  the  primitive 
prison,  till  man,  with  Promethean  felicity  and  boldness, 
luckily  sinned  himself  out  of  it.  Thence  followed  Baby- 
lon, Nineveh,  Venice,  London,  haberdashers,  goldsmiths, 
taverns,  playhouses,  satires,  epigrams,  puns,— these  all 
came  in  on  the  town  part,  and  the  thither  side  of  inno- 

*  Published  in  1824. 


118  CHAKLES   LAMB  [Mt.  54 

cence.  Man  found  out  inventions.  From  my  den  I  re- 
turn you  condolence  for  your  decaying  sight;  not  for 
anything  there  is  to  see  in  the  country,  but  for  the  miss 
of  the  pleasure  of  reading  a  London  newspaper.  The 
poets  are  as  well  to  listen  to;  any  thing  high  may,  nay 
must,  be  read  out;  you  read  it  to  yourself  with  an 
imaginary  auditor;  but  the  light  paragraphs  must  be 
glid  over  by  the  proper  eye;  mouthing  mumbles  their 
gossamery  substance.  'Tis  these  trifles  I  should  mourn 
in  fading  sight.  A  newspaper  is  the  single  gleam  of 
comfort  I  receive  here;  it  comes  from  rich  Cathay  with 
tidings  of  mankind.  Yet  I  could  not  attend  to  it,  read 
out  by  the  most  beloved  voice.  But  your  eyes  do  not  get 
worse,  I  gather.  O  for  the  collyrium  of  Tobias  inclosed 
in  a  whiting's  liver,  to  send  you  with  no  apocryphal  good 
wishes  I  The  last  long  time  I  heard  from  you,  you  had 
knocked  your  head  against  something.  Do  not  do  so; 
for  your  head  (I  do  not  flatter)  is  not  a  knob,  or  the 
top  of  a  brass  nail,  or  the  end  of  a  nine  pin, — unless  a 
Vulcanian  hammer  could  fairly  batter  a  "Recluse"  out 
of  it ;  then  would  I  bid  the  smirched  god  knock  and  knock 
lustily,  the  two-handed  skinker.  Mary  must  squeeze  out 
a  line  proprid  manu,  but  indeed  her  fingers  have  been 
incorrigibly  nervous  to  letter  writing  for  a  long  interval. 
'Twill  please  you  all  to  hear,  that  though  I  fret  like  a 
lion  in  a  net,  her  present  health  and  spirits  are  better 
than  they  have  been  for  some  time  past.  She  is  absolutely 
three  years  and  a  half  younger,  as  I  tell  her,  since  we  have 
adopted  this  boarding  plan. 

Our  providers  are  an  honest  pair,  Dame  Westwood  and 
her  husband.  He,  when  the  light  of  prosperity  shined 
on  them,  a  moderately  thriving  haberdasher  within  Bow 
bells,  retired  since  with  something  under  a  competence; 
writes  himself  parcel  gentleman;  hath  borne  parish  of- 
fices ;  sings  fine  old  sea  songs  at  threescore  and  ten ;  sighs 
only  now  and  then  when  he  thinks  that  he  has  a  son  on 
his  hands,  about  fifteen,  whom  he  finds  a  difficulty  in 
getting  out  into  the  world,  and  then  checks  a  sigh  with 
muttering,  as  I  once  heard  him  prettily,  not  meaning  to 
be  heard,  "I  have  married  my  daughter,  however";  takes 
the  weather  as  it  comes;  outsides  it  to  town  in  severest 
season;  and  o'  winter  nights  tells  old  stories  not  tending 


JSt.  54]  CHARLES    LAMB  119 

to  literature,  (how  comfortable  to  author-rid  folks!)  and 
has  one  anecdote,  upon  which  and  about  forty  pounds  a 
year  he  seems  to  have  retired  in  green  old  age.  It  was 
how  he  was  a  rider  in  his  youth,  travelling  for  shops  and 
once  (not  to  balk  his  employer's  bargain)  on  a  sweltering 
day  in  August,  rode  foaming  into  Dunstable  upon  a  mad 
horse,  to  the  dismay  and  expostulatory  wonderment  of 
innkeepers,  ostlers,  &c.,  who  declared  they  would  not  have 
bestrid  the  beast  to  win  the  Derby.  Understand,  the 
creature  galled  to  death  and  desperation  by  gad-flies, 
cormorant-winged,  worse  than  beset  Inachus's  daughter. 
This  he  tells,  this  he  brindles  and  burnishes  on  a  Win- 
ter's eve;  'tis  his  star  of  set  glory,  his  rejuvenescence,  to 
descant  upon.  Far  from  me  be  it  (dii  avertant)  to  look 
a  gift  story  in  the  mouth,  or  cruelly  to  surmise  (as  those 
who  doubt  the  plunge  of  Curtius)  that  the  inseparate 
conjuncture  of  man  and  beast,  the  centaur-phenomenon 
that  staggered  all  Dunstable,  might  have  been  the  effect 
of  unromantic  necessity;  that  the  horse-part  carried  the 
reasoning,  willy  nilly;  that  needs  must  when  such  a  devil 
drove;  that  certain  spiral  configurations  in  the  frame  of 
Thomas  Westwood  unfriendly  to  alighting,  made  the  al- 
liance more  forcible  than  voluntary.  Let  him  enjoy  his 
fame  for  me,  nor  let  me  hint  a  whisper  that  shall  dis- 
mount Bellerophon.  But  in  case  he  was  an  involuntary 
martyr,  yet  if  in  the  fiery  conflict  he  buckled  the  soul  of 
a  constant  haberdasher  to  him,  and  adopted  his  flames, 
let  accident  and  him  share  the  glory.  You  would  all  like 
Thomas  Westwood.  How  weak  is  painting  to  describe  a 
man!  Say  that  he  stands  four  feet  and  a  nail  high  by 
his  own  yard  measure,  which,  like  the  sceptre  of  Aga- 
memnon, shall  never  sprout  again,  still  you  have  no 
adequate  idea;  nor  when  I  tell  you  that  his  dear  hump, 
which  I  have  favoured  in  the  picture,  seems  to  me  of  the 
buffalo — indicative  and  repository  of  mild  qualities,  a 
budget  of  kindnesses — still  you  have  not  the  man.  Knew 
you  old  Norris  of  the  Temple?  sixty  years  ours  and  our 
fathers'  friend?  He  was  not  more  natural  to  us  than 
this  old  W.,  the  acquaintance  of  scarce  more  weeks.  Un- 
der his  roof  now  ought  I  to  take  my  rest,  but  that  back- 
looking  ambition  tells  me  I  might  yet  be  a  Londoner! 
Well,  if  ever  we  do  move,  we  have  incumbrances  the  less- 


120  CHARLES   LAMB  ^Et.  58 


to  impede  us;  all  our  furniture  has  faded  under  the  auc- 
tioneer's hammer,  going  for  nothing,  like  the  tarnished 
frippery  of  the  prodigal,  and  we  have  only  a  spoon  or 
two  left  to  bless  us.  Clothed  we  came  into  Enfield,  and 
naked  we  must  go  out  of  it.  I  would  live  in  London, 
shirtless,  bookless.  Henry  Crabb  is  at  Rome;  advices  to 
that  effect  have  reached  Bury.  But  by  solemn  legacy  he 
bequeathed  at  parting  (whether  he  should  live  or  die)  a 
turkey  of  Suffolk  to  be  sent  every  succeeding  Christmas 
to  us  and  divers  other  friends.  What  a  genuine  old 
bachelor's  action!  I  fear  he  will  find  the  air  of  Italy  too 
classic.  His  station  is  in  the  Harz  forest;  his  soul  is 
be-Goethed.  Miss  Kelly  we  never  see;  Talfourd  not  this 
half-year:  the  latter  flourishes,  but  the  exact  number  of 
his  children  (God  forgive  me!)  I  have  utterly  forgotten. 
We  single  people  are  often  out  in  our  count  there.  Shall 
I  say  two?  We  see  scarce  anybody.  Can  I  cram  loves 
enough  to  you  all  in  this  little  O  ?  Excuse  particularizing. 

C.  L. 

[>£t.  58] 

To  MRS.  HAZLITT 
["A  HALF-WAY  PURGATORY"] 

May  31st,  1833. 
Dear  Mrs.  Hazliti,  — 

I  will  assuredly  come  and  find  you  out  when  I  am  bet- 
ter. I  am  driven  from  house  to  house  by  Mary's  illness. 
I  took  a  sudden  resolution  to  take  my  sister  to  Edmon- 
ton, where  she  was  under  medical  treatment  last  time, 
and  have  arranged  to  board  and  lodge  with  the  people. 
Thank  God,  I  have  repudiated  Enfield.  I  have  got  out 
of  hell,  despair  of  heaven,  and  must  sit  down  contented 
in  a  half-way  purgatory.  Thus  ends  this  strange  event- 
ful history.  But  I  am  nearer  town,  and  will  get  up  to 
you  somehow  before  long. 

I  repent  not  of  my  resolution.  'Tis  late,  and  my  hand 
is  unsteady;  so  good-bye  till  we  meet, 

Your  old 

C.  L. 
Mr.  Walden's, 

Church  Street,  Edmonton. 
Mrs.  Hazlitt,  No.  4,  Palace  Street,  Pimlico. 


JEt.  58]  CHARLES    LAMB  121 

58] 


To  EDWARD  MOXON 
[EMMA  ISOLA'S  WATCH] 

July  24th,  1833. 

For  God's  sake  give  Emma  no  more  watches;  one  has 
turned  her  head.  She  is  arrogant  and  insulting.  She 
said  something  very  unpleasant  to  our  old  clock  in  the 
passage,  as  if  he  did  not  keep  time,  and  yet  he  had  made 
her  no  appointment.  She  takes  it  out  every  instant  to 
look  at  the  moment-hand.  She  lugs  us  out  into  the  fields, 
because  there  the  bird-boys  ask  you,  "Pray,  Sir,  can  you 
tell  us  what's  o'clock?"  and  she  answers  them  punctually. 
She  loses  all  her  time  looking  to  see  "what  the  time  is." 
I  overheard  her  whispering,  "Just  so  many  hours,  min- 
utes, &c.,  to  Tuesday;  I  think  St.  George's  goes  too  slow." 
This  little  present  of  Time!  —  why,  —  'tis  Eternity  to  her! 

What  can  make  her  so  fond  of  a  gingerbread  watch? 

She  has  spoiled  some  of  the  movements.  Between  our- 
selves, she  has  kissed  away  "half-past  twelve,"  which  I 
suppose  to  be  the  canonical  hour  in  Hanover  Square. 

Well,  if  "love-  me  love  my  watch"  answers,  she  will  keep 
time  to  you. 

It  goes  right  by  the  Horse  Guards. 

Dearest  M.,  —  Never  mind  opposite  nonsense.  She  does 
not  love  you  for  the  watch,  but  the  watch  for  you.  I  will 
be  at  the  wedding,  and  keep  the  30th  July,  as  long  as  my 
poor  months  last  me,  as  a  festival,  gloriously. 

Yours  ever, 
ELIA. 

We  have  not  heard  from  Cambridge.  I  will  write  the 
moment  we  do. 

Edmonton,  24th  July,  twenty  minutes  past  three  by 
Emma's  watch. 


122  CHAKLES    LAMB  [Mt.  58 

[>Et.  58] 

To  MR.  AND  MRS.  MOXON 
[MARY  LAMB  AT  THE  WEDDING  OF  EMMA  ISOLA] 

August,  1833. 
Dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moxon, — 

Time  very  short.  I  wrote  to  Miss  Fryer,  and  had  the 
sweetest  letter  about  you,  Emma,  that  ever  friendship 
dictated.  "I  am  full  of  good  wishes,  I  am  crying  with 
good  wishes,"  she  says;  but  you  shall  see  it. 

Dear  Moxon, — I  take  your  writing  most  kindly,  and 
shall  most  kindly  your  writing  from  Paris. 

I  want  to  crowd  another  letter  to  Miss  Fryer  into  the 
little  time  after  dinner,  before  post  time.  So  with  twenty 
thousand  congratulations, 

Yours, 
C.  L. 

I  am  calm,  sober,  happy.  Turn  over  for  the  reason.  I 
got  home  from  Dover  Street,  by  Evans,  half  as  sober  as  a 
judge.  I  am  turning  over  a  new  leaf,  as  I  hope  you  will 
now. 

[The  turn  of  the  leaf  presented  the  following  from 
Mary  Lamb : — ] 

My  dear  Emma  and  Edward  Moxon, — 

Accept  my  sincere  congratulations,  and  imagine  more 
good  wishes  than  my  weak  nerves  will  let  me  put  into 
good  set  words.  The  dreary  blank  of  unanswered  ques- 
tions which  I  ventured  to  ask  in  vain  was  cleared  up  on 
the  wedding  day  by  Mrs.  W.  taking  a  glass  of  wine,  and, 
with  a  total  change  of  countenance,  begging  leave  to 
drink  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moxon's  health.  It  restored  me  from 
that  moment,  as  if  by  an  electrical  stroke,  to  the  entire 
possession  of  my  senses.  I  never  felt  so  calm  and  quiet 
after  a  similar  illness  as  I  do  now.  I  feel  as  if  all  tears 
were  wiped  from  my  eyes,  and  all  care  from  my  heart. 

MARY  LAMB. 


Mt.  59]  CHARLES    LAMB  123 

Wednesday. 
Dears  again, — 

Your  letter  interrupted  a  seventh  game  at  picquet  which 
we  were  having,  after  walking  to  Wright's  and  purchasing 
shoes.  We  pass  our  time  in  cards,  walks,  and  reading. 
We  attack  Tasso  soon. 

C.  L. 

Never  was  such  a  calm,  or  such  a  recovery.  "Tis  her 
own  words  undictated. 

[>Et.  59] 

To  Miss  FRYER 
["BETTER  THAN  THE  SENSE  AND  SANITY  OF  THIS  WORLD"] 

Feb.  14,  1834. 
Dear  Miss  Fryer, — 

Your  letter  found  me  just  returned  from  keeping  my 
birthday  (pretty  innocent!)  at  Dover  Street.  I  see  them 
pretty  often.  I  have  since  had  letters  of  business  to  write, 
or  should  have  replied  earlier.  In  one  word,  be  less  un- 
easy about  me;  I  bear  my  privations  very  well;  I  am  not 
in  the  depths  of  desolation,  as  heretofore.  Your  admoni- 
tions are  not  lost  upon  me.  Your  kindness  has  sunk  into 
my  heart.  Have  faith  in  me !  It  is  no  new  thing  for  me 
to  be  left  to  my  sister.  When  she  is  not  violent,  her 
rambling  chat  is  better  to  me  than  the  sense  and  sanity 
of  this  world.  Her  heart  is  obscured,  not  buried ;  it  breaks 
out  occasionally;  and  one  can  discern  a  strong  mind 
struggling  with  the  billows  that  have  gone  over  it.  I 
could  be  nowhere  happier  than  under  the  same  roof  with 
her.  Her  memory  is  unnaturally  strong;  and  from  ages 
past,  if  we  may  so  call  the  earliest  records  of  our  poor  life, 
she  fetches  thousands  of  names  and  things  that  never 
would  have  dawned  upon  me  again,  and  thousands  from 
the  ten  years  she  lived  before  me.  What  took  place  from 
early  girlhood  to  her  coming  of  age,  principally  lives 
again  (every  important  thing,  and  every  trifle)  in  her 
brain,  with  the  vividness  of  real  presence.  For  twelve 
hours  incessantly  she  will  pour 'out  without  intermission 
all  her  past  life,  forgetting  nothing,  pouring  out  name 


124  MARY   LAMB  [^Et.  42 

after  name  to  the  Waldens,  as  a  dream;  sense  and  non- 
sense; truths  and  errors  huddled  together;  a  medley  be- 
tween inspiration  and  possession.  What  things  we  are! 
I  know  you  will  bear  with  me,  talking  of  these  things. 
It  seems  to  ease  me,  for  I  have  nobody  to  tell  these  things 
to  now.  Emma,  I  see,  has  got  a  harp !  and  is  learning  to 
play.  She  has  framed  her  three  Walton  pictures,  and 
pretty  they  look.  That  is  a  book  you  should  read:  such 
sweet  religion  in  it,  next  to  Woolman's,  though  the  sub- 
ject be  baits,  and  hooks,  and  worms,  and  fishes.  She  has 
my  copy  at  present,  to  do  two  more  from. 

Very,  very  tired!  I  began  this  epistle,  having  been 
epistolizing  all  the  morning,  and  very  kindly  would  I  end 
it,  could  I  find  adequate  expressions  to  your  kindness. 
We  did  set  our  minds  on  seeing  you  in  Spring.  One  of 
us  will  indubitably.  But  I  am  not  skilled  in  almanack 
learning  to  know  when  Spring  precisely  begins  and  ends. 
Pardon  my  blots;  I  am  glad  you  like  your  book.  I  wish 
it  had  been  half  as  worthy  of  your  acceptance  as  John 
Woolman.  But  'tis  a  good-natured  book. 


.  42]  MARY  LAMB 

1764-1847 
To  MRS.  CLARKSON 

[THE  FAILURE  OF  MR.  H ] 

Tuesday,  Deer.  23,  1806. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Clarkson, — 

You  are  very  kind  to  say  you  are  'out  of  humour  with 
yourself  for  not  writing  before,  but  I  beg  you  will  never 
be  so  again.  I  know  so  well,  and  often  feel  so  badly,  how 
tiresome  writing  sometimes  is,  that  I  intreat  you  will 
never  write  but  when  you  will  feel  yourself  quite  inclined. 
— I  tried  the  morning  after  the  failure  of  our  little  farce 
to  write  a  line,  but  you  know  its  .ill  success  and  how 
stoutly  we  meant  to  bear  it,  but  I  found  myself  utterly 
incapable  of  writing  one  connected  sentence,  so  that  was 
the  philosophy  I  wished  to  boast  of. 

I  do  not  love  to  throw  the  blame  of  the  ill  success  of 
a  piece  upon  the  actors— ^it  is  a  common  trick  with  un- 
successful dramatists.  The  blame  rested  chiefly  with 


JEt.  42]  MARY   LAMB  125 

Charles,  and  yet  should  not  be  called  blame,  for  it  was 
mere  ignorance  of  stage  effect — and  I  am  mistaken  if  he 
has  not  gained  much  useful  knowledge,  more  than  he 
would  have  learned  from  a  constant  attendance  at  the 
representations  of  other  people's  pieces,  by  seeing  his  own 
fail;  he  seems  perfectly  aware  why,  and  from  what  cause 
it  failed.  He  intends  to  write  one  more  with  all  his  dear 
bought  experience  in  his  head,  and  should  that  share  the 
same  fate,  he  will  then  turn  his  mind  to  some  other  pur- 
suit. 

I  am  happy  to  hear  so  good  an  account  of  your  health; 
go  on  improving  as  fast  as  you  can,  that  I  may  find  you. 
quite  well.  At  Easter,  or  a  few  weeks  after,  I  hope  to 
spend  a  delightful  holiday  with  you  at  Bury;  if  we  come 
at  Easter  .we  cannot  stay  longer  than  one  week;  if  we 
defer  our  journey,  we  can  make  a  much  longer  visit,  but 
at  present  I  know  not  how  it  will  be  settled,  for  my 
brother  sometimes  threatens  to  pass  his  hollidays  in  town 
hunting  over  old  plays  at  the  Museum  to  extract  passages 
for  a  work  (a  collection  of  poetry)  Mr.  Wordsworth  in- 
tends to  publish.  However,  I  hope  before  that  time  ar- 
rives, he  will  be  able  to  borrow  the  books  of  some  good 
old  collector  of  those  hidden  treasures,  and  thus  they  can 
be  copied  at  home  and  much  of  Charles'  labour  and  time 
saved.  The  Museum  is  only  open  during  his  office  hours. 
I  am  much  pleased  with  your  friend  Henry  Robinson. 
He  has  been  truly  kind  and  friendly  about  the  farce. 

That  disappointment  is  wearing  out  of  our  heads  very 
fast.  My  brother  means  to  keep  at  home  very  much  this 
winter,  and  work  very  hard.  When  he  is  at  work,  he  is 
always  happier  and  in  better  health. 

I  am  glad  Miss  Smith  is  with  you,  because  Coleridge 
has  told  me  she  is  the  best  good  girl  in  the  world. 

I  am  pleased  to  hear  again  the  name  of  your  old  neigh- 
bour Mr.  Smith.  I  well  remember  him  the  first  season 
of  .the  School  for  Scandal;  he  was  ("I  being  a  young 
thing  then")  a  prodigious  favourite  with  me.  I  cannot 
for  the  life  of  me  conceive  of  him  as  an  old  man.  0  what 
actors  there  were  then!  but  as  I  said  before,  disappointed 
authors  must  not  complain  of  actors — you  shall  see  the: 
piece  when  I  can  spare  time  to  write  a  copy,  or  can  spare 
the  only  one  we  have.  No  matter  for  the  brains  of  your- 


126  MARY   LAMB  [^Et.  53 

good  towns-people.     Go  amongst  them  as  much  as  you 
can,  I  am  sure  company  is  a  certain  cure  for  your  malady. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  of  my  friend  Tom's  improvement; 
never  mind  his  learning,  that  will  come  in  due  time.  In- 
deed I  have  reasons  for  wishing  him  a  little  backward  in 
that  respect,  for  I  have  a  little  book  I  mean  to  send  him 
and  the  printer  has  been  so  long  bringing  it  out  I  began 
to  fear  Tom  would  attain  so  much  knowledge  as  to  out- 
grow the  use  thereof,  and  Tom's  approbation  of  my  first 
production  was  one  of  the  things  I  built  upon.  I  suppose 
I  may  send  a  parcel  by  the  Bury  stage?  That  is  a  foolish 
question  to  ask,  for  no  doubt  I  may. 

I  rejoice  to  hear  Mr.  Clarkson  has  begun  his  history 
of  the  Abolition  —  May  we  not  expect  to  see  him  now  in 
a  few  days?  —  how  I  wish  he  would  bring  you  too. 

We  are  to  stay  at  home  and  work,  as  I  forget  it  is 
Christmas,  but  we  sincerely  wish  you  a  merry  happy 
Christmas  and  many,  many  happy  healthy  new  years. 

Charles'  kindest  respects  to  you  and  Mr.  Clarkson  and 
young  Tom  and  Miss  Buck.  Is  she  not  at  Bury?  I  re- 
main your  affectionate  friend, 

M.  LAMB. 

No  news  of  Coleridge  lately. 

I  shall  rejoice  to  hear  from  you,  whenever  you  feel  writ- 
ing quite  pleasant  to  you.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  queer 
scrawl  as  mine? 


.  53] 

To  DOROTHY  WORDSWORTH 
[A  NEW  HOME] 

1817. 
My  dear  Miss  Wordsworth,  — 

Your  kind  letter  has  given  us  very  great  pleasure;  the 
sight  of  your  hand-writing  was  a  .most  welcome  surprise 
to  us.  We  have  heard  good  tidings  of  you  by  all  our 
friends  who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  visit  you  this  Sum- 
mer, and  rejoice  to  see  it  confirmed  by  yourself.  You 
have  quite  the  advantage,  in  volunteering  .a  letter;  there 
is  no  merit  in  replying  to  so  welcome  a  stranger. 

We  have  left  the  Temple.  I  think  you  will  be  sorry  to 
hear  this.  I  know  I  have  never  been  so  well  satisfied  with 


^Et.  53]  MAKY   LAMB  127 

thinking  of  you  at  Rydal  Mount,  as  when  I  could  con- 
nect the  idea  of  you  with  your  own  Grasmere  Cottage. 
Our  rooms  were  dirty  and  out  of  repair,  and  the  incon- 
veniences of  living  in  chambers  became  every  year  more 
irksome,  and  so,  at  last,  we  mustered  up  resolution  enough 
to  leave  the  good  old  place,  that  so  long  had  sheltered  us, 
and  here  we  are,  living  at  a  brazier's  shop,  No.  20,  in 
Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden,  a  place  all  alive  with  noise 
and  bustle;  Drury  Lane  Theatre  in  sight  from  our  front, 
and  Covent  Garden  from  our  back  windows.  The  hubbub 
of  the  carriages  returning  from  the  play  does  not  annoy 
me  in  the  least;  strange  that  it  does  not,  for  it  is  quite 
tremendous.  I  quite  enjoy  looking  out  of  the  window, 
and  listening;  to  the  calling  up  of  the  carriages,  and  the 
squabbles  of  the  coachmen  and  linkboys.  It  is  the  oddest 
scene  to  look  down  upon;  I  am  sure  you  would  be  amused 
with  it.  It  is  well  I  am  in  a  cheerful  place,  or  I  should 
have  many  misgivings  about  leaving  the  Temple.  .  I  look 
forward  with  great  pleasure  to  the  prospect  of  seeing  my 
good  friend,  Miss  Hutchinson.  I  wish  Rydal  Mount,  with 
all  its  inhabitants  enclosed,  were  to  be  transplanted  with 
her,  and  to  remain  stationary  in  the  midst  of  Covent 
Garden. 

I  passed  through  the  street  lately  where  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wordsworth  lodged;  several  fine  new  houses,  which  were 
then  just  rising  out  of  the  ground,  are  quite  finished,  and 
a  noble  entrance  made  that  way  into  Portland  Place.  I 
am  very  sorry  for  Mr.  De  Quincey.  What  a  blunder  the 
poor  man  made  when  he  took  up  his  dwelling  among  the 
mountains!  I  long  to  see  my  friend  Pypos.  Coleridge 
is  still  at  Little  Hampton  with  Mrs.  Gilman;  he  has  been 
so  ill  as  to  be  confined  to  his  room  almost  the  whole  time 
he  has  been  there. 

Charles  has  had  all  his  Hogarths  bound  in  a  book ;  they 
were  sent  home  yesterday,  and  now  that  I  have  them  alto- 
gether, and  perceive  the  advantage  of  peeping  close  at 
them  through  my  spectacles,  I  am  reconciled  to  the  loss 
of  them  hanging  round  the  room,  which  has  been  a  great 
mortification  to  me — in  vain  1  tried  to  console  myself 
with  looking  at  our  new  chairs  and  carpets;  for  we  have 
got  new  chairs,  and  carpets  covering  all  over  our  two 
sitting-rooms;  I  missed  my  old  friends  and  could  not  be 


128  THOMAS    MOOKE  [^t.  25 

comforted — then  I  would  resolve  to  learn  to  look  out  of 
the  window,  a  habit  I  never  could  attain  in  my  life,  and 
I  have  given  it  up  as  a  thing  quite  impracticable — yet 
when  I  was  at  Brighton,  last  Summer,  the  first  week  I 
never  took  my  eyes  off  from  the  sea,  not  even  to  look  in 
a,  book:  I  had  not  seen  the  sea  for  sixteen  years.  Mrs. 
Morgan,  who  was  with  us,  kept  her  liking,  and  continued 
her  seat  in  the  window  till  the  very  last,  while  Charles 
and  I  played  truants,  and  wandered  among  the  hills,  which 
we  magnified  into  little  mountains,  and  almost  as  good 
as  Westmoreland  scenery:  certainly  we  made  discoveries 
of  many  pleasant  walks,  which  few  of  the  Brighton  visi- 
tors have  ever  dreamed  of — for,  like  as  is  the  case  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  London,  after  the  first  two  or  three 
miles  we  were  sure  to  find  ourselves  in  a  perfect  solitude. 
I  hope  we  shall  meet  before  the  walking  faculties  of  either 
of  us  fail;  you  say  you  can  walk  fifteen  miles  with  ease; 
that  is  exactly  my  stint,  and  more  fatigues  me;  four  or 
five  miles  every  third  or  fourth  day,  keeping  very  quiet 
between,  was  all  Mrs.  Morgan  could  accomplish. 

God  bless  you  and  yours.    Love  to  all  and  each  one. 

I  am  ever  yours  most  affectionately,  M.  LAMB. 


25]  THOMAS   MOOEE 

1779-1852 
To  His  MOTHER 

[A  VISIT  TO   NIAGARA  FALLS] 

NIAGARA,  July  24,  1804. 
My  dearest  Mother, — 

I  have  seen  the  Falls,  and  am  all  rapture  and  amaze- 
ment. I  cannot  give  you  a  better  idea  of  what  I  felt  than 
hy  transcribing  what  I  wrote  off  hastily  in  my  journal 
on  returning.  "Arrived  at  Chippewa,  within  three  miles 
of  the  Falls,  on  Saturday,  July  21,  to  dinner.  That  even- 
ing walked  towards  the. Falls,  but  got  no  farther  than 
the  rapids,  which  gave  us  a  prelibation  of  the  grandeur 
we  had  to  expect.  Next  day,  Sunday,  July  22,  went  to 
visit  the  Falls.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  impression  I 
felt  at  the  first  glimpse  of  them  which  we  got  as  the  car- 
riage passed  over  the  hill  that  overlooks  them.  We  were 


JSt.  36]  THOMAS   MOOKE  129 

not  near  enough  to  be  agitated  by  tbe  terrific  effects  of 
the  scene;  but  saw  through  the  trees  this  mighty  flow  of 
waters  descending  with  calm  magnificence,  and  received 
enough  of  its  grandeur  to  set  imagination  on  the  wing ; 
imagination  which,  even  at  Niagara,  can  outrun  reality. 
I  felt  as  if  approaching  the  very  residence  of  the  Deity; 
the  tears  started  into  my  eyes;  and  I  remained,  for  mo- 
ments after  we  had  lost  sight  of  the  scene,  in  that  de- 
licious absorption  which  pious  enthusiasm  alone  can  pro- 
duce. We  arrived  at  the  New  Ladder  and  descended  to 
the  bottom.  Here  all  its  awful  sublimities  rushed  full 
upon  me.  But  the  former  exquisite  sensation  was  gone. 
I  now  saw  all.  The  string  that  had  been  touched  by  the 
first  impulse,  and  which  fancy  would  have  kept  for  ever 
in  vibration,  now  rested  at  reality.  Yet,  though  there 
was  no  more  to  imagine,  there  was  much  to  feel.  My 
whole  heart  and  soul  ascended  towards  the  Divinity  in 
a  swell  of  devout  admiration,  which  I  never  before  ex- 
perienced. Oh!  bring  the  atheist  here,  and  he  cannot 
return  an  atheist!  I  pity  the  man  who  can  coldly  sit 
down  to  write  a  description  of  these  ineffable  wonders: 
much  more  do  I  pity  him  who  can  submit  them  to  the 
admeasurement  of  gallons  and  yards.  It  is  impossible  by 
pen  or  pencil  to  convey  even  a  faint  idea  of  their  mag- 
nificence. Painting  is  lifeless,  and  the  most  burning 
words  of  poetry  have  all  been  lavished  upon  inferior  and 
ordinary  subjects.  We  must  have  new  combinations  of 
language  to  describe  the  Fall  of  Niagara." 


[JEt.  36] 

To  SAMUEL  KOGERS 
[MOORE  AT  WORK  ON  "LALLA  ROOKH"] 

MAYFIELD:  December  26,  1815. 
My  dear  Rogers, — 

As  this  is  about  the  time  you  said  you  should  be  on 
your  return  to  London,  from  your  bright  course  through 
that  noble  zodiac  you've  been  moving  in,  I  hasten  to  wel- 
come you  thither,  not  alas !  with  my  hand,  as  I  could  wish, 
— that  joy  must  not  be  for  a  few  months  longer, — but 
with  my  warmest  congratulations  on  your  safe  and  sound 


130  THOMAS    MOOKE  [^Et.  36 

return  from  the  Continent,  and  hearty  thanks  for  your 
kind  recollections  of  me — recollections  which  I  never  want 
the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  letter-writing  to  assure 
me  of,  however  delightful  and  welcome  it  may  be,  in  ad- 
dition to  knowing  that  there's  sweet  music  in  the  instru- 
ment, to  hear  a  little  of  its  melody  now  and  then.  This 
image  will  not  stand  your  criticism,  but  you  know  its 
meaning,  and  that's  enough — much  more  indeed  than  we 
Irish  image-makers  can  in  general  achieve.  My  desire  to 
see  you  for  yourself  alone,  is  still  more  whetted  by  all  1 
hear  of  the  exquisite  gleanings  you  have  made  on  your 
tour.  The  Donegals  say  you  have  seen  so  much,  seen 
everything  so  well,  and  describe  it  all  so  picturesquely, 
that  there  is  nothing  like  the  treat  of  hearing  you  talk 
of  your  travels — how  I  long  for  that  treat!  You  are  a 
happy  fellow,  my  dear  Rogers,  I  know  no  one  more  nourri 
des  fleurs  of  life,  no  one  who  lives  so  much  "apis  matins 
more"  as  yourself.  The  great  regret  of  my  future  days 
(and  I  hope  the  greatest)  will  be  my  loss  of  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  that  glorious  gallery,  which  like  those 
"domes  of  Shadukiam  and  Amberabad,"  that  Nourmahal 
saw  in  the  "gorgeous  clouds  of  the  west,"  is  now  dispersed 
and  gone  for  ever.  It  is  a  loss  that  never  can  be  reme- 
died; but  still  perhaps  our  sacrifices  are  among  our  pleas- 
antest  recollections,  and  I  ought  not  to  feel  sorry  that 
the  time  and  money,  which  would  have  procured  for  my- 
self this  great  gratification,  have  been  employed  in  mak- 
ing other  hearts  happy,  better  hearts  than  mine,  and  bet- 
ter happiness  than  that  would  have  been.  With  respect 
to  my  Peris,  thus  stands  the  case,  and  remember  that  they 
are  still  to  remain  (where  Peris  best  like  to  be)  under  the 
rose.  I  have  nearly  finished  three  tales,  making,  in  all, 
about  three  thousand  five  hundred  lines,  but  my  plan  is 
to  have  five  tales,  the  stories  of  all  which  are  arranged, 
and  which  I  am  determined  to  finish  before  I  publish — 
no  urgings  nor  wonderings  nor  tauntings  shall  induce  me 
to  lift  the  curtain  till  I  have  grouped  these  five  subjects 
in  the  way  I  think  best  for  variety  and  effect.  I  have 
already  suffered  enough  by  premature  publication.  I  have 
formidable  favourites  to  contend  with,  and  must  try  to 
make  up  my  deficiencies  in  dash  and  vigour  by  a  greater 
degree,  if  possible,  of  versatility  and  polish.  Now  it  will 


Mt.  34]  WASHINGTON   IEVING  131 

take,  at  the  least,  six  thousand  lines  to  complete  this  plan, 
i.e.,  between  two  and  three  thousand  more  than  I  have 
yet  done.  By  May  next  I  expect  to  have  five  thousand 
finished.  This  is  the  number  for  which  the  Longmans 
stipulated,  and  accordingly  in  May  I  mean  to  appear  in 
London,  and  nominally  deliver  the  work  into  their  hands. 
It  would  be  then  too  late  (even  if  all  were  finished)  to 
think  of  going  to  press;  so  that  I  shall  thus  enjoy  the 
credit  with  the  Literary  Quidnuncs  of  having  completed 
my  task,  together  with  the  advantage  of  the  whole  sum- 
mer before  me  to  extend  it  to  the  length  I  purpose.  Such 
is  the  statement  of  my  thousands,  &c.,  which  I  am  afraid 
you  will  find  as  puzzling  as  a  speech  of  Mr.  Vansittart's ; 
but  it  is  now  near  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  which  being 
an  hour  later  than  our  cottage  rules  allow,  I  feel  it  im- 
possible to  be  luminous  any  longer — in  which  tendency 
to  eclipse,  my  candle  sympathises  most  gloomily. 

Your  poor  friend  Psyche  is  by  no  means  well.  I  was 
in  hopes  that  our  Irish  trip  would  have  benefited  her; 
but  her  weakness  and  want  of  appetite  continue  most  dis- 
tressingly, and  our  cold  habitation  in  the  fields  has  now 
given  her  a  violent  cough,  which  if  it  does  not  soon  get 
better,  will  alarm  me  exceedingly.  I  never  love  her  so 
well  as  when  she  is  ill,  which  is  perhaps  the  best  proof 
how  really  I  love  her.  How  do  Byron  and  my  Lady  go 
on  ?  there  are  strange  rumours  in  the  country  aTxmt  them. 
Ever  yours,  my  dear  Eogers, 
THOMAS  MOORE. 


[>Et.  34]          WASHINGTON   IRVING 

1783-1859 
To  His  BROTHER,  PETER  IRVING 

[A  VISIT  TO  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT] 

ABBOTSFORD,  September  1,  1817. 
My  dear  Brother: 

I  have  barely  time  to  scrawl  a  line  before  the  gossoon 
goes  off  with  the  letters  to  the  neighboring  post-office. 

I  was  disappointed  in  my  expectation  of  meeting  with 
Dugald  Stewart  at  Mr.  Jeffrey's;  some  circumstance  pre- 
vented his  coming;  though  we  had  Mrs.  and  Miss  Stew- 


132  WASHINGTON   IRVING  [^Et.  34 

art.  The  party,  however,  was  very  agreeable  and  inter- 
esting. Lady  Davy  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  talked 
like  an  angel.  In  the  evening,  when  we  collected  in  the 
drawing-room,  she  held  forth  for  upwards  of  an  hour; 
the  company  drew  round  her  and  seemed  to  listen  in 
mute  pleasure;  even  Jeffrey  seemed  to  keep  his  colloquial 
powers  in  check  to  give  her  full  chance.  She  reminded 
me  of  the  picture  of  the  Minister  Bird  with  all  the  birds 
of  the  forest  perched  on  the  surrounding  branches  in 
listening  attitudes.  I  met  there  with  Lord  Webb  Sey- 
mour, brother  to  the  Duke  of  Somerset.  He  is  almost  a 
constant  resident  of  Edinburgh.  He  was  very  attentive 
to  me;  wrote  down  a  route  for  me  in  the  Highlands,  and 
called  on  me  the  next  morning,  when  he  detailed  the  route 
more  particularly.  I  have  promised  to  see  him  when  I 
return  to  Edinburgh,  which  promise  I  shall  keep,  as  I 
like  him  much. 

On  Friday,  in  spite  of  sullen,  gloomy  weather,  I 
mounted  the  top  of  the  mail  coach,  and  rattled  off  to  Sel- 
kirk. It  rained  heavily  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon, 
and  drove  me  inside.  On  Saturday  morning  early  I  took 
chaise  for  Melrose;  and  on  the  way  stopped  at  the  gate 
of  Abbotsford,  and  sent  in  my  letter  of  introduction,  with 
a  request  to  know  whether  it  would  be  agreeable  for  Mr. 
Scott  to  receive  a  visit  from  me  in  the  course  of  the  day. 
The  glorious  old  minstrel  himself  came  limping  to  the 
gate,  took  me  by  the  hand  in  a  way  that  made  me  feel  as 
if  we  were  old  friends;  in  a  moment  I  was  seated  at  his 
hospitable  board  among  his  charming  little  family,  and 
here  have  I  been  ever  since.  I  had  intended  certainly 
being  back  to  Edinburgh  to-day  (Monday),  but  Mr.  Scott 
wishes  me  to  stay  until  Wednesday,  that  we  may  make 
excursions  to  Dryburgh  Abbey,  Yarrow,  &c.,  as  the 
weather  has  held  up  and  the  sun  begins  to  shine.  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  truly  I  have  enjoyed  the  hours  I  have 
passed  here.  They  fly  by  too  quick,  yet  each  is  loaded  with 
story,  incident,  or  song;  and  when  I  consider  the  world 
of  ideas,  images,  and  impressions  that  have  been  crowded 
upon  my  mind  since  I  have  been  here,  it  seems  incredi- 
ble that  I  should  only  have  been  two  days  at  Abbotsford. 
I  have  rambled  about  the  hills  with  Scott;  visited  the 
haunts  of  Thomas  the  Ehymer,  and  other  spots  rendered 


Mi.  34]  WASHINGTON   IKYING  133 

classic  by  border  tale  and  witching  song,  and  have  been, 
in  a  kind  of  dream  or  delirium. 

As  to  Scott,  I  cannot  express  my.  delight  at  his  charac- 
ter and  manners.  He  is  a  sterling  golden-hearted  old 
worthy,  full  of  the  joyousness  of  youth,  with  an  imagina- 
tion continually  furnishing  forth  picture,  and  a  charm- 
ing simplicity  of  manner  that  puts  you  at  ease  with  him 
in  a  moment.  It  has  been  a  constant  source  of  pleasure 
to  me  to  remark  his  deportment  towards  his  family,  his 
neighbors,  his  domestics,  his  very  dogs  and  cats;  every- 
thing that  comes  within  his  influence  seems  to  catch  a 
beam  of  that  sunshine  that  plays  round  his  heart;  but  I 
shall  say  more  of  him  hereafter,  for  he  is  a  theme  on 
which  I  shall  love  to  dwell. 

Before  I  left  Edinburgh  I  saw  Blackwopd  in  his  shop. 
It  was  accidental — my  conversing  with  him.  He  found 
out  who  I  was;  is  extremely  anxious  to  make  an  Ameri- 
can arrangement ;  wishes  to  get  me  to  write  for  his  Maga- 
zine; (the  "Edinburgh  Monthly.")  Wishes  to  introduce 
me  to  Mackenzie,  Wilson,  &c.  Constable  called  on  me 
just  before  I  left  town.  He  had  been  in  the  country  and 
just  returned.  He  was  very  friendly  in  his  manner.  Lord 
Webb  Seymour's  coming  in  interrupted  us,  and  Consta- 
ble took  leave.  I  promised  to  see  him  on  my  return  to 
Edinburgh.  He  is  about  regenerating  the  old  "Edin- 
burgh Magazine,"  and  has  got  Blackwood's  editors  away 
from  him  in  consequence  of  some  feud  they  had  with 
him.  .  .  . 

Commend  me  to  Hamilton.  I  hope  to  hear  from  him 
soon,  and  shall  write  to  him  again. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 
W.  I. 

P.  8. — This  morning  we  ride  to  Dryburgh  Abbey  and 
see  also  the  old  Earl  of  Buchan — who,  you  know,  is  a 
queer  one. 


134  WASHINGTON   IKVING  [Mt.  41 

[^Et.  41] 

To  THOMAS  MOORE 
[KENNEY;  ROGERS;  LORD  BYRON'S  "LIFE"] 

BRIGHTON,  August  14,  1824. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore 
And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 

I  forget  how  the  song  ends,  but  here  I  am  at  Brighton 
just  on  the  point  of  embarking  for  France.  I  have  dragged 
myself  out  of  London  as  a  horse  drags  himself  out  of  the 
slough  or  a  fly  out  of  a  honey  pot,  almost  leaving  a  limb 
behind  him  at  every  tug.  Not  that  I  have  been  immersed 
in  pleasure  and  surrounded  by  sweets,  but  rather  up  to 
the  ears  in  ink  and  harassed  by  printers'  devils. 

I  never  have  had  such  fagging  in  altering,  adding,  and 
correcting;  and  I  have  been  detained  beyond  all  patience 
by  the  delays  of  the  press.  Yesterday  I  absolutely  broke 
away,  without  waiting  for  the  last  sheets.  They  are  to 
be  sent  after  me  here  by  mail  to  be  corrected  this  morn- 
ing, or  else  they  must  take  their  chance.  From  the  time 
I  first  started  pen  in  hand '  on  this  work,*  it  has  been 
nothing  but  hard  driving  with  me. 

I  have  not  been  able  to  get  to  Tunbridge  to  see  the 
Donegals,  which  I  really  and  greatly  regret.  Indeed  I 
have  seen  nobody  except  a  friend  or  two,  who  had  the 
kindness  to  hunt  me  out.  Among  these  was  Mr.  Story, 
and  I  ate  a  dinner  there  tliat  it  took  me  a  week  to  digest, 
having  been  obliged  to  swallow  so  much  hard-favored 
nonsense  from  a  loud-talking  baronet  whose  name,  thank 
God,  I  forget,  but  who  maintained  Byron  was  not  a  man 
of  courage,  and  therefore  his  poetry  was  not  readable.  I 
was  really  afraid  he  would  bring  John  Story  to  the  same 
way  of  thinking. 

I  went  a  few  evenings  since  to  see  Kenney's  new  piece, 
the  Alcaid.  It  went  off  lamely,  and  the  Alcaid  is  rather 
a  bore,  and  comes  near  to  be  generally  thought  so.  Poor 
Kenney  came  to  my  room  next  evening,  and  I  could  not 
have  believed  that  one  night  could  have  ruined  a  man 
so  completely.  I  swear  to  you  I  thought  at  first  it  was  a 
flimsy  suit  of  clothes  had  left  some  bedside  and  walked 

*  Tales  of  a  Traveller. 


.Et.  41]  WASHINGTON   IRVING  135 

into  my  room  without  waiting  for  the  owner  to  get  up; 
or  that  it  was  one  of  those  frames  on  which  clothiers 
stretch  coats  at  their  shop  doors ;  until  I  perceived  a  thin 
face  sticking  edgeways  out  of  the  collar  of  the  coat  like 
the  axe  in  a  bundle  of  fasces.  He  was  so  thin,  and  pale, 
and  nervous,  and  exhausted — he  made  a  dozen  difficulties 
in  getting  over  a  spot  in  the  carpet,  and  never  would  have 
accomplished  it  if  he  had  not  lifted  himself  over  by  the 
points  of  his  shirt  collar. 

I  saw  Kogers  just  as  I  was  leaving  town.  He  told  me 
he  had  seen  you,  and  that  the  christening  was  soon  to 
take  place. 

I  had  not  time  to  ask  Rogers  any  particulars  about  you, 
and  indeed  he  is  not  exactly  the  man  from  whom  I  would 
ask  news  about  my  friends.  I  dined  tete-d-tete  with  him 
some  time  since,  and  he  served  up  his  friends  as  he  served 
up  his  fish,  with  a  squeeze  of  lemon  over  each.  It  was 
very  piquant,  but  it  rather  set  my  teeth  on  edge. 

I  hope  you  are  working  at  Lord  Byron's  life.  Sheri- 
dan's can  keep  without  disadvantage,  but  now  is  the 
time  to  work  at  Lord  B.  so  as  to  bring  it  out  before  the 
interest  shall  have  died  away,  or  that  others  shall  have 
usurped  the  public  mind  with  respect  to  him. 

I  met  Mrs.  Brannegan  one  evening  at  the  opera,  and 
on  parting  inquired  her  address.  I  was  too  busy  to  call 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  made  my  call  the  very  day  she  had 
departed. 

Farewell,  my  dear  Moore.  Let  me  hear  from  you,  if 
but  a  line;  particularly  if  my  work  pleases  you,  but  don't 
say  a  word  against  it.  I  am  easily  put  out  of  humor  with 
what  I  do.  Give  as  much  love  to  Mrs.  Moore  as  it  is  re- 
spectable in  a  husband  to  countenance,  and  tell  her  I  have 
ordered  a  copy  of  my  work  to  be  sent  to  her. 

Yours  ever, 

WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


136  WASHINGTON   IRVING  [^Et.  48 

.  48] 


To  MRS.  PARIS 
[CHRISTMAS  FESTIVITIES  ;  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY] 

NEWSTEAD  ABBEY,  Jan.  20,  1832. 
My  dear  Sister: 

Upwards  of  a  month  since  I  left  London  with  Mr.  Van 
Buren  and  his  son,  on  a  tour  to  show  them  some  interest- 
ing places  in  the  interior,  and  to  give  them  an  idea  of 
English  country  life,  and  the  festivities  of  an  old-fash- 
ioned English  Christmas.  We  posted  in  an  open  carriage, 
as  the  weather  was  uncommonly  mild  and  beautiful  for 
the  season.  Our  first  stopping  place  was  Oxford,  to  visit 
the  noble  collegiate  buildings;  thence  we  went  to  Blen- 
heim, and  visited  the  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
one  of  the  finest  places  in  England.  We  next  passed  a 
night  and  part  of  the  next  day  at  Stratford-on-Avon, 
visiting  the  house  where  Shakespeare  was  born  and  the 
church  where  he  lies  buried.  We  were  quartered  at  the 
little  inn  of  the  Red  Horse,  where  I  found  the  same 
obliging  little  landlady  that  kept  it  at  the  time  of  the 
visit  recorded  in  the  Sketch  Book.  You  cannot  imagine 
what  a  fuss  the  little  woman  made  when  she  found  out 
who  I  was.  She  showed  me  the  room  I  had  occupied,  in 
which  she  had  hung  up  my  engraved  likeness,  and  she 
produced  a  poker  which  was  locked  up  in  the  archives  of 
her  house,  on  which  she  had  caused  to  be  engraved, 
"Geoffrey  Crayon's  Sceptre."  From  Stratford  we  went 
to  Warwick  Castle,  Kenilworth,  and  then  to  Birming- 
ham, where  we  passed  a  part  of  three  days,  dining  at 
Van  Wart's;  continuing  our  tour  we  visited  Lichfield 
and  its  beautiful  cathedral,  Derby,  Nottingham,  New- 
stead  Abbey,  Hardwick  Castle,  &c.,  &c.,  and  finally  ar- 
rived on  Christmas  eve  at  Barlborough  Hall,  where  we 
had  engaged  to  remain  during  the  holidays.  Here,  then, 
we  passed  a  fortnight,  during  which  the  old  hall  was  a 
complete  scene  of  old  English  hospitality.  Many  of  the 
ancient  games  and  customs,  obsolete  in  other  parts  of 
England,  are  still  maintained  in  that  part  of  the  coun- 
try, and  are  encouraged  by  Mr.  Rodes.  We  accordingly 
had  mummers,  and  morris  dancers,  and  glee  singers  from 
the  neighboring  villages;  and  great  feasting,  with  the 


Jit.  48]  WASHINGTON   IRVING  137 

boar's  head  crowned  with  holly;  the  wassail  bowl,  the 
yule  clog,  snap  dragon,  &c.,  &c.  There  was  dancing  by 
night  in  the  grand  tapestried  apartments,  and  dancing  in 
the  servants'  hall,  and  all  kinds  of  merriment.  The  whole 
was  to  have  wound  up  by  a  grand  fancy  ball  on  Twelfth 
Night  to  which  all  the  gentry  of  the  neighborhood  were 
invited,  when  Mr.  Rodes  received  news  of  the  death  of  a 

relative,  which  put  an  end  to  the  festivities 

After  leaving  the  hospitable  mansion  of  Mr.  Rodes  we 
came  to  Newstead  Abbey  on  an  invitation  from  Col.  Wild- 
man,  the  present  proprietor.  Mr.  Van  Buren  and  his  son 
remained  but  a  couple  of  days,  but  I  was  easily  prevailed 
upon  to  prolong  my  visit,  and  have  now  been  here  about 
a  fortnight;  and  never  has  time  passed  away  more  de- 
lightfully. I  have  found  Col.  Wildman  a  most  estimable 
man,  warm-hearted,  generous,  and  amiable,  and  his  wife 
charming  both  in  character  and  person.  The  abbey  I 
have  already  mentioned  to  you  in  a  former  letter  as  being 
the  ancestral  mansion  of  Lord  Byron,  and  mentioned  fre- 
quently in  his  writings.  I  occupy  his  room,  and  the  very 
bed  in  which  he  slept.  The  edifice  is  a  fine  mixture  of 
the  convent  and  the  palace,  being  an  ancient  abbey  of 
friars  granted  by  Henry  VIII.  to  the  Byron  family.  At 
one  end  is  the  ruin  of  the  abbey  church;  the  Gothic  front 
still  standing  in  fine  preservation  and  overrun  with  ivy. 
My  room  immediately  adjoins  it,  and  hard  by  is  a  dark 
grove  filled  with  rooks,  who  are  continually  wheeling  and 
cawing  about  the  building.  What  was  once  the  interior 
of  the  church  is  now  a  grassy  lawn  with  gravel  walks, 
and  where  the  high  altar  stood,  is  the  monument  erected 
by  Lord  Byron  to  his  dog,  in  which  he  intended  his  own 
body  should  be  deposited.  The  interior  of  the  abbey  is 
a  complete  labyrinth.  There  are  the  old  monkish  clois- 
ters, dim  and  damp,  surrounding  a  square,  in  the  centre 
of  which  is  a  grotesque  Gothic  fountain.  Then  there  are 
long  corridors  hung  with  portraits,  and  set  out  with 
figures  in  armor,  that  look  like  spectres.  There  are  an- 
cient state  apartments  that  have  been  occupied  by  some 
of  the  British  sovereigns  in  their  progresses,  and  which 
still  bear  their  names.  These  have  been  restored  by  Col. 
Wildman  with  great  taste,  and  are  hung  with  ancient 
tapestry,  and  quaintly  furnished.  There  are  large  halls, 


138  THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY  [.Et.  60 

also,  some  splendidly  restored,  others  undergoing  repairs; 
with  long  vaulted  chambers  that  have  served  for  refec- 
tories and  dormitories  to  the  monks  in  old  times.  Behind 
the  edifice  is  the  ancient  abbey  garden,  with  great  ter- 
raced walks,  balustrades,  fish  ponds,  formal  flower  plots, 
&c.,  all  kept  up  in  admirable  style,  and  suiting  the  vener- 
able appearance  of  the  building.  You  may  easily  imagine 
the  charms  of  such  a  residence  connected  with  the  poeti- 
cal associations  with  the  memory  of  Lord  Byron.  The 
solemn  and  monastic  look  of  many  parts  of  the  edifice, 
also,  has  a  most  mysterious  and  romantic  effect,  and  has 
given  rise  to  many  superstitious  fables  among  the  serv- 
ants and  the  neighboring  peasantry.  They  have  a  story 
of  a  friar  in  black  who  haunts  the  cloisters,  and  is  said 
to  have  been  seen  by  Lord  Byron.  He  certainly  alludes 
to  him  in  his  poems.  Then  there  is  a  female  in  white, 
who  appeared  in  the  bedroom  of  a  young  lady,  a  cousin 
of  Lord  Byron,  coming  through  the  wall  on  one  side  of 
the  room,  and  going  into  the  wall  on  the  other  side.  Be- 
sides these  there  is  "Sir  John  Byron,  the  little,  with  the 
great  beard,"  the  first  proprietor  of  the  abbey,  whose  por- 
trait in  black  hangs  up  in  the  drawing  room.  He  has 
been  seen  by  a  young  lady  visitor,  sitting  by  the  fireplace 
of  one  of  the  state  apartments  reading  out  of  a  great 
book.  I  could  mention  other  stories  of  the  "kind,  but 
these  are  sufficient  to  show  you  that  this  old  building  is 

more  than  usually  favored  by  ghosts 

Ever  most  affectionately  your  brother, 

W.  I. 

[Mt.  60]  THOMAS   DE  QUINCE Y 

1785-1859 

To  A  FRIEND 

[THE  "HIDEOUS  INCUBUS"  UPON  HIS  MIND] 

[1845  ?] 

With  respect  to  my  book  ["The  Logic  of  Political 
Economy,"  which  appeared  in  1844],  .which  perhaps  by 
this  time  you  and  Professor  Nichol  will  have  received 
through  the  publishers,  I  have  a  word  to  say.  Upon  some 
of  the  distinctions  there  contended  for  it  would  be  false 
humility  if  I  should  doubt  they  are  sound.  The  sub- 


Mt.  60]  THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY  139 

stance,  I  am  too  well  assured,  is  liable  to  no  dispute.  But 
as  to  the  method  of  presenting  the  distinctions,  as  to  the 
composition  of  the  book,  and  the  whole  evolution  of  a 
course  of  thinking,  there  it  is  that  I  too  deeply  recognise 
the  mind  affected  by  my  morbid  condition.  Through  that 
ruin,  and  by  help  of  that  ruin,  I  looked  into  and  read  the 
latter  states  of  Coleridge.  His  chaos  I  comprehended  by 
the  darkness  of  my  own,  and  both  were  the  work  of  lauda- 
num. It  is  as  if  ivory  carvings  and  elaborate  fretwork 
and  fair  enamelling  should  be  found  with  worms  and 
ashes  amongst .  coffins  and  the  wrecks  of  some  forgotten 
life  or  some  abolished  nature.  In  parts  and  fractions 
eternal  creations  are  carried  on,  but  the  nexus  is  want- 
ing, and  life  and  the  central  principle  which  should  bind 
together  all  the  parts  at  the  centre,  with  all  its  radiations 
to  the  circumference,  are  wanting.  Infinite  incoherence, 
ropes  of  sand,  gloomy  incapacity  of  vital  pervasion  by 
some  one  plastic  principle,  that  is  the  hideous  incubus 
upon  my  mind  always.  For  there  is  no  disorganised 
wreck  so  absolute,  so  perfect,  as  that  which  is  wrought 
by  misery. 

Misery  is  a  strong  word;  and  I  would  not  have  molested 
your  happiness  by  any  such  gloomy  reference,  were  it  not 
that  I  did  really,  and  in  solemn  earnest,  regard  my  con- 
dition in  that  same  hopeless  light  as  I  did  until  lately. 
I  had  one  sole  glimmer  of  hope,  and  it  was  this — that 
laudanum  might  be  the  secret  key  to  all  this  wretched- 
ness, not  utterable  to  any  human  ear,  which  for  ever  I 
endured.  Upon  this  subject  the  following  is  my  brief 
record.  On  leaving  Glasgow  in  the  first  week  of  June, 
1843,  I  was  as  for  two  years  you  had  known  me.  Why  I 
know  not,  but  for  some  cause  during  the  summer  months 
the  weight  of  insufferable  misery  and  mere  abhorrence 
of  life  increased;  but  also  it  fluctuated.  A  conviction  fell 
upon  me  that  immense  exercise  might  restore  me.  But 
you  will  imagine  my  horror  when,  with  that  conviction, 
I  found,  precisely  in  my  earliest  efforts,  my  feet  gave 
way,  and  the  misery  in  all  its  strength  came  back.  Every 
prospect  I  had  of  being  laid  up  as  a  cripple  for  life. 
Much  and  deeply  I  pondered  on  this,  and  I  gathered  my- 
self up  as  if  for  a  final  effort.  For  if  that  fate  were  estab- 
lished, farewell  I  felt  for  me  to  all  hope  of  restoration. 


140  THOMAS   DE    QUINCEY  [Mt.  60 

Eternally  the  words  sounded  in  my  ears:  "Suffered  and 
was  buried."  Unless  that  one  effort  which  I  planned  and 
determined,  as  often  you  see  a  prostrate  horse  "biding 
his  time"  and  reserving  his  strength  for  one  mighty 
struggle,  too  surely  I  believed  that  for  me  no  ray  of  light 
would  ever  shine  again.  The  danger  was,  that  at  first 
going  off  on  exercise  the  inflammation  should  come  on; 
that,  if  then  I  persisted,  the  inflammation  would  settle 
into  the  bones,  and  the  case  become  desperate.  It  mat- 
ters not  to  trouble  you  with  the  details — the  result  was 
this : — I  took  every  precaution  known  to  the  surgical  skill 
of  the  neighbourhood.  Within  a  measured  space  of  forty- 
four  yards  in  circuit,  so  that  forty  rounds  were  exactly 
required  for  one  mile,  I  had  within  ninety  days  walked 
a  thousand  miles.  And  so  far  I  triumphed.  But  because 
still  I  was  irregular  as  to  laudanum,  this  also  I  reformed. 
For  six  months  no  result;  one  dreary  uniformity  of  re- 
port—  absolute  desolation;  misery  so  perfect  that  too 
surely  I  perceived,  and  no  longer  disguised  from  myself, 
the  impossibility  of  continuing  to  live  under  so  profound 
a  blight.  I  now  kept  my  journal  as  one  who  in  a  desert 
island  is  come  to  his  last  day's  provisions.  On  Friday 
the  23d  of  February,  I  might  say  for  the  first  time,  in 
scriptural  words,  "And  the  man  was  sitting  clothed  and  in 
his  right  mind."  That  is  not  too  strong  an  expression. 
I  had  known  all  along,  and  too  ominously  interpreted  the 
experience  from  the  fact,  that  I  was  not  in  my  perfect 
mind.  .Lunacy  causes  misery;  the  border  is  sometimes 
crossed,  and  too  often  that  is  the  order  of  succession.  But 
also  misery,  and  above  all  physical  misery,  working  by 
means  of  intellectual  remembrances  and  persecution  of 
thoughts,  no  doubt  sometimes  inversely  causes  lunacy. 
To  that  issue  I  felt  that  all  things  tended.  You  may 
guess,  therefore,  the  awe  that  fell  upon  me,  when,  not  by 
random  accident,  capable  of  no  theory  on  review,  but  in 
consequence  of  one  firm  system  pursued  through  eight 
months  as  to  one  element,  and  nearly  three  as  to  another, 
I  recovered  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  such 
a  rectification  of  the  compass  as  I  had  not  known  for 
years.  It  is  true  that  this  frame  departed  from  me  within 
forty-eight  hours;  but  that  no  way  alarmed  me — I  drew 
hope  from  the  omen.  It  is  as  if  a  man  had  been  in  a 


Mt.  60]  THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY  141 

whirlpool,  carried  violently  by  a  headlong  current,  and 
before  he  could  speak  or  think,  he  was  riding  as  if  at 
anchor,  once  more  dull  and  untroubled,  as  in  days  of  in- 
fancy. The  current  caught  me  again;  and  the  old  suffer- 
ings in  degree  came  back,  as  I  have  said.  There  is  some- 
thing shocking  and  generally  childish,  by  too  obvious 
associations,  in  any  suggestions  of  suicide ;  but  too  certain- 
ly I  felt  that  to  this  my  condition  tended ;  for  again  enor- 
mous irritability  was  rapidly  travelling  over  the  disk  of 
my  life,  and  this,  and  the  consciousness  of  increasing 
weakness,  added  to  my  desolation  of  heart.  I  felt  that  no 
man  could  continue  to  struggle.  Coleridge  had  often 
spoken  to  me  of  the  dying  away  from  him  of  all  hope; 
not  meaning,  as  I  rightly  understood  him,  the  hope  that 
forms  itself  as  a  distant  look  out  into  the  future,  but  of 
the  gladsome  vital  feelings  that  are  born  of  the  blood, 
and  make  the  goings-on  of  life  pleasurable. 

Then  I  partly  understood  him,  now  perfectly;  and  lay- 
ing all  things  together,  I  returned  obstinately  to  the  be- 
lief that  laudanum  was  at  the  root  of  all  this  unimagina- 
ble hell.  Why  then  not,  if  only  by  way  of  experiment, 
leave  it  off?  Alas!  that  had  become  impossible.  Then  I 
descended  to  a  hundred  drops.  Effects  so  dreadful  and 
utterly  unconjectured  by  medical  men  succeeded  that  I 
was  glad  to  get  back  under  shelter.  Not  the  less  I  per- 
sisted; silently,  surely,  descended  the  ladder,  and,  as  I 
have  said,  suddenly  found  my  mind  as  if  whirled  round 
on  its  true  centre.  A  line  of  Wordsworth's  about  Ger- 
many I  remembered: — 

"All  power  was  given  her  in  the  dreadful  trance." 

Such  was  my  sense:  illimitable  seemed  the  powers  re- 
stored to  me;  and  now,  having  tried  the  key,  and  found 
it  the  true  key,  even  though  a  blast  of  wind  has  blown 
the  door  to  again,  no  jot  of  spirits  was  gone  away  from 
me:  I  shall  arise  as  one  risen  from  the  dead. 

This  long  story  I  have  told  you,  because  nothing  short 
of  this  could  explain  my  conduct,  past,  present,  and  fu- 
ture. And  thus  far  there  is  an  interest  for  all  the  world 
— that  I  am  certain  of  this,  viz.,  that  misery  is  the  talis- 
man by  which  man  communicates  with  the  world  outside 
of  our  fleshly  world. 


|>Et.  32]    BENJAMIN  EGBERT  HAYDON 

1786-1846 

To  JOHN  KEATS 

[RECOVERING  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER] 

14th  July,  1818.  [?] 
My  dear  Keats, 

When  I  called  the  other  morning  I  did  not  know  your 
poems  were  out,  or  I  should  have  read  them  before  I 
came,  in  order  to  tell  you  my  opinion.  I  have  done  so 
since,  and  really  I  cannot  tell  you  how  very  highly  I  esti- 
mate them.  They  justify  the  assertions  of  all  your  friends 
regarding  your  poetical  powers.  I  can  assure  you,  what- 
ever you  may  do,  you  will  not  exceed  my  opinion  of  them. 
Have  you  done  with  Chapman's  "Homer"?  I  want  it 
very  badly  at  this  moment.  Will  you  let  the  bearer  have 
it,  as  well  as  let  me  know  how  you  are? 

I  am,  dear  Keats,  ever  yours, 
B.  R.  HAYDON. 

[^t.  35] 

To  MlSS  MlTP'ORD 

["POOR  DEAR  KEATS!"] 

21st  April,  1821. 

...  .  .  ,  Keats  was  a  victim  to  personal  abuse  and 
want  of  nerve  to  bear  it.  Ought  he  to  have  sunk  in  that 
way  because  a  few  quizzers  told  him  that  he  was  an 
apothecary's  apprentice?  A  genius  more  purely  poetical 
never  existed!  In  conversation  he  was  nothing,  or  if 
anything,  weak  and  inconsistent;  he  had  an  exquisite 
sense  of  humour,  but  it  was  in  the  fields  Keats  was  in 

his  glory His   ruin  was  owing  to  his  want  of 

decision  of  character  and  power  of  will,  without  which 
genius  is  a  curse.  He  could  not  bring  his  mind  to  bear 
on  one. object,  and  was  at  the  mercy  of  every  pretty  theory 
Leigh  Hunt's  ingenuity  would  suggest.  .  .  .  He  had  a 
tending  to  religion  when  first  I  knew  him,  but  Leigh  Hunt 
soon  forced  it  from  his  mind.  Never  shall  I  forget  Keats 
once  rising  from  his  chair  and  approaching  my  last  pic- 
ture ("Entry  into  Jerusalem") ;  he  went  before  the  por- 

142 


.Et  35]     BENJAMIN   ROBEKT   HAYDON  143 

trait  of  Voltaire,  placed  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  bow- 
ing low 

".     .     .     .     In  reverence  done,  as  to  the  power 
That  dwelt  within,  whose  presence  had  infused 
Into  the  plant  sciential  sap,  derived 
From  nectar,  drink  of  gods," 

as  Milton  says  of  Eve  after  she  had  eaten  the  apple. 
"That's  the  being  to  whom  I  bend,"  said  he,  alluding  to 
the  bending  of  the  other  figures  in  the  picture,  and  con- 
trasting Voltaire  with  our  Saviour,  and  his  own  adora- 
tion to  that  of  the  crowd.  Leigh  Hunt  was  the  great  un- 
hinger  of  his  best  dispositions.  Latterly,  Keats  saw  Leigh 
Hunt's  weakness.  I  distrusted  his  leader,  but  Keats  would 
not  cease  to  visit  him  because  he  thought  Hunt  illused. 
This  showed  Keats's  goodness  of  heart. 

He  began  life  full  of  hope,  and  his  brother  told  me 
that  he  recounted  with  pride  and  delight  the  opinion  we 
had  expressed  of  his  powers  the  first  morning  he  had 
breakfasted  with  me.  Fiery,  impetuous,  ungovernable, 
and  undecided,  he  expected  the  world  to  bow  at  once  to 
his  talents  as  his  friends  had  done,  and  he  had  not  patience 
to  bear  the  natural  irritation  of  envy  at  the  undoubted 
proof  he  gave  of  strength.  Goaded  by  ridicule,  he  dis- 
trusted himself,  and  flew  to  dissipation.  For  six  weeks 
he  was  hardly  ever  sober,  and  to  show  you  what  a  man  of 
genius  does  when  his  passions  are  roused,  he  told  me  that 
he  once  covered  his  tongue  and  throat,  as  far  as  he  could 
reach,  with  cayenne  pepper  in  order  to  enjoy  the  "delicious 
coolness  of  claret  in  all  its  glory."  This  was  his  own  ex- 
pression. 

The  death  of  his  brother  wounded  him  deeply,  and  it 
appeared  to  me  from  that  hour  he  began  to  droop.  He 
wrote  his  exquisite  "Ode  to  the  Nightingale"  at  this  time, 
and  as  we  were  one  evening  walking  in  the  Kilburn 
meadows  he  repeated  it  to  me,  before  he  put  it  to  paper, 
in  a  low,  tremulous  under-tone  which  affected  me  ex- 
tremely. He  had  great  enthusiasm  for  me  and  so  had  I 
for  him,  but  he  grew  angry  latterly  because  I  shook  my 
head  at  his  proceedings.  I  told  him,  I  begged  of  him  to 
bend  his  genius  to  some  definite  object.  I  remonstrated  on 


144  BENJAMIN   EOBEET    HAYDON     [^Et.  39 

his  absurd  dissipation,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  last  time  I 
saw  him  was  at  Hampstead,  lying  on  his  back  in  a  white 
bed,  helpless,  irritable,  and  hectic.  He  had  a  book,  and 
enraged  at  his  own  feebleness,  seemed  as  if  he  were  going 
out  of  the  world  with  a  contempt  for  this,  and  no  hopes 
of  a  better.  He  muttered  as  I  stood  by  him  that  if  he 
did  not  recover  he  would  "cut  his  throat."  I  tried  to 
calm  him,  but  to  no  purpose.  I  left  him  in  great  de- 
pression of  spirit  to  see  him  in  such  a  state.  Poor  dear 
Keats ! 


|>Et.  37] 

To  MlSS  MlTFORD 

[A  ROBIN] 

7th  November,  1823. 

.  .  .  The  other  day,  while  Frank  was  lying  on  his  bed 
in  the  nursery,  a  little  robin  hopped  in.  I  caught  it, 
caged  it,  and  after  a  day  or  two  it  began  to  "dit!  dit!" 
This  note  seized  hold  of  the  boy's  imagination;  and  last 
night  when,  like  a  good  old  papa,  I  got  out  in  the  dark 
to  give  him  something  to  drink,  the  instant  he  felt  my 
rough  hand,  which  he  knew  was  not  his  mother's,  after 
he  had  satisfied  his  thirst,  he  pressed  his  cheek  against 
my  hand — half-asleep  as  he  was — and  in  a  small  treble 
voice,  like  a  flageolet,  said  "Dittey!"  with  a  sort  of  spark- 
ling chuckle.  Is  he  not  a  darling?  It  was  so  cheerful,  in 
the  midst  of  a  dark  night,  when  most  children  would  have 
cried,  that,  I  privately  tell  you — at  which  you  must  not 
laugh — I  hugged  him  well. 

\_Mt.  39] 

To  MlSS   MlTFORD 

[COLERIDGE;    A    SARCOPHAGUS;    SIR    JOHN    SOANE] 

28th  March,  1825. 

...  I  was  at  Soane's  last  night  to  see  this  sarcoph- 
agus by  lamp-light.  The  first  person  I  met,  after  sev- 
enteen years,  was  Coleridge,  silver-haired!  He  looked  at 
my  bald  front,  and  I  at  his  hair,  with  mutual  looks  of 
sympathy  and  mutual  headshaking.  It  affected  me  very 


Mt.  39]     BENJAMIN   ROBERT   HAYDON  145 

much,  and  so  it  seemed  to  affect  him.  I  did  not  know  what 
to  say,  nor  did  he;  and  then  in  his  chanting  way,  half- 
poetical,  half-inspired,  half-idiotic,  he  began  to  console 
me  by  trying  to  prove  that  the  only  way  for  a  man  of 
genius  to  be  happy  was  just  to  put  forth  no  more  power 
than  was  sufficient  for  the  purposes  of  the  age  in  which 
he  lived,  as  if  genius  was  a  power  one  could  fold  up  like 
a  parasol!  At  this  moment  over  came  Spurzheim,  with 
his  German  simplicity,  and  shaking  my  hand:  "How  doe 
you  doe?  Vy,  your  organs  are  more  parfaite  den  eaver. 
How  luckee  you  lose  your  hair.  Veel  you  pearmeet  me 
to  eintrowdooze  you  to  Mrs.  Spurzheim?"  I  was  pushed 
against  Turner,  the  landscape  painter,  with  his  red  face 
and  white  waistcoat,  and  before  I'  could  see  Mrs.  Spurz- 
heim, was  carried  off  my  legs,  and  irretrievably  bustled 
to  where  the  sarcophagus  lay. 

Soane's  house  is  a  perfect  Cretan  labyrinth:  curious 
narrow  staircases,  landing  places,  balconies,  spring  doors, 
and  little  rooms  filled  with  fragments  to  the  very  ceiling. 
It  was  the  finest  fun  imaginable  to  see  the  people  come 
into  the  library  after  wandering  about  below,  amidst 
tombs  and  capitals,  and  shafts,  and  noiseless  heads,  with 
a  sort  of  expression  of  delighted  relief  at  finding  them- 
selves again  among  the  living,  and  with  coffee  and  cake! 
They. looked  as  if  they  were  pleased  to  feel  their  blood 
circulate  once  more,  and  went  smirking  up  to  Soane, 
"lui  faisant  leurs  compliments,"  with  a  twisting  chuckle 
of  features  as  if  grateful  for  their  escape.  Fancy  deli- 
cate ladies  of  fashion  dipping  their  pretty  heads  into  an 
old  mouldy,  fusty,  hieroglyphicked  coffin,  blessing  their 
stars  at  its  age,  wondering  whom  it  contained,  and  whis- 
pering that  it  was  mentioned  in  Pliny.  You  can  imagine 
the  associations  connected  with  such  contrasts.  Just  as 
I  was  beginning  to  meditate,  the  Duke  of  Sussex,  with 
a  star  on  his  breast,  and  an  asthma  inside  it,  came  squeez- 
ing and  wheezing  along  the  narrow  passage,  driving  all 
the  women  before  him  like  a  Blue-Beard,  and  putting 
his  royal  head  into  the  coffin,  added  his  wonder  to  the 
wonder  of  the  rest.  Upstairs  stood  Soane,  spare,  thin, 
caustic,  and  starched,  "mocking  the  thing  he  laughed  at," 
as  he  smiled  approbation  for  the  praises  bestowed  on  his 
magnificent  house.  .  .  .  Coleridge  said,  "I  have  a  great 


146  BENJAMIN   EGBERT   HAYDON     [Mt.  40 

contempt  for  these  Egyptians  with  all  their  learning. 
After  all,  what  did  it  amount  to,  but  a  bad  system  of 
astronomy?"  "What  do  you  think  of  this  house,  Mr. 
Haydon?"  said  that  dandy,  ,  to  me.  "Very  interest- 
ing," I  said.  "Very  interesting,"  he  replied,  with  a  spar- 
kle in  his  eye  denoting  an  occult  meaning  he  was  too 
polite  to  express.  "Very  curious,  is  it  not?"  "Very  curi- 
ous," I  echoed.  "Very  kind  of  Mr.  Soane  to  open  the 
house  so."  "Very  kind,"  I  replied,  as  grave  as  the  Chan- 
cellor, seeing  that  he  was  dying  *to  say  something  which 
would  come  out  if  I  pretended  ignorance.  "Rather  odd, 
though,  stuck  about  so."  I  smiled.  "However,  it  is  very 
kind  of  Soane,  you  kpow,  but  it's  a  funny  house,  and 

a "     Just  then,  Soane  was  elbowed  against  him,  and 

both  making  elegant  bows  to  each  other, — expressed  his 
thanks  to  Soane  for  "admitting  him  to  the  enjoyment  of 
such  a  splendid  treat,"  &c.,  &c., — and  he  went  off  with 
Soane  downstairs,  talking  of  the  Egyptians  with  all  the 
solemnity  of  deep  learning  and  of  a  profound  interest 
in  his  subject. 

As  I  looked  at  Soane,  smiling  and  flushed  by  flattery, 
I  thought  of  Johnson  at  Ranelagh.  "There  was  not  a 
soul  then  around  him  who  would  not,  ere  they  put  on 
their  night-caps,  envy  him  his  assemblage  of  rank,  and 
talent,  and  fashion;  sneer  at  his  antiques,  quiz  his  coffee, 
and  go  to  sleep,  pitying  with  affected  superiority  his  de- 
lusion and  vanity."  But  Soane  is  a  good  though  caustic 
man.  .  .  .  And  now  I  must  go  and  paint  the  carpet  my 
.sitter  stands  on;  so  adieu  to  human  nature,  and  let  me 
paint  with  all  my  power  the  colour  and  the  texture  of  a 
Brussels  bit. 

Ever  sincerely  yours, 

B.  R.  HAYDON. 
|>£t.  40] 

To  MlSS   MlTFORD 

[AN  APPRECIATIVE  BUTCHER] 

18th  August,  1826. 

How  do  you  find  yourself?  I  heard  you  were  poorly. 
What  are  you  about  ?  I  was  happy  to  hear  of  -  — 's  safe 
arrival  again,  and  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  see  him, 
though  tell  him  he  will  find  no  more  "Solomons"  tower- 


Mi.  40]    BENJAMIN   EGBERT   HAYDON  147 

ing  up  as  a  background  to  our  conversations.  Nothing 
but  genteel-sized  drawing-room  pocket-history — Alexander 
in  a  nutshell ;  Bucephalus  no  bigger  than  a  Shetland  pony, 
and  my  little  girl's  doll  a  giantess  to  my  Olympias! 

The  other  night  I  paid  my  butcher ;  one  of  the  miracles 
of  these  times,  you  will  say.  Let  me  tell  you  I  have  all 
my  life  been  seeking  for  a  butcher  whose  respect  for 
genius  predominated  over  his  love  of  gain.  I  could  not 
make  out,  before  I  dealt  with  this  man,  his  excessive  de- 
sire that  I  should  be  his  customer;  his  sly  hints  as  I 
passed  his  shop  that  he  had  "a  bit  of  South  Down,  very 
fine;  a  sweetbread,  perfection;  and  a  calf's  foot  that  was 
all  jelly  without  bone!"  The  other  day  he  called,  and  I 
had  him  sent  up  into  the  painting-room.  I  found  him 
in  great  admiration  of  "Alexander."  "Quite  alive,  Sir!" 
"I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  said  I.  "Yes,  Sir;  but,  as  I 
have  said  often  to  my  sister,  you  could  not  have  painted 
that  picture,  Sir,  if  you  had  not  eat  my  meat,  Sir!" 
"Very  true,  Mr.  Sowerby."  "Ah !  Sir,  I  have  a  fancy  for 
genus,  Sir!"  'Tftave  you,  Mr.  Sowerby?"  "Yes,  Sir; 
Mrs.  Siddons,  Sir,  has  eat  my  meat,  Sir;  never  was  such 
a  woman  for  chops,  Sir!" — and  he  drew  up  his  beefy, 
shiny  face,  clean  shaved,  with  a  clean  blue  cravat  under 
his  chin,  a  clean  jacket,  a  clean  apron,  and  a  pair  of  hands 
that  would  pin  an  ox  to  the  earth  if  he  was  obstreper- 
ous— "Ah!  Sir,  she  was  a  wonderful  crayture!"  "She 
was,  Mr.  Sowerby."  "Ah!  Sir,  when  she  used  to  act  that 
there  character,  you  see  (but  Lord,  such  a  head!  as  I  say 
to  my  sister) — that  there  woman,  Sir,  that  murders  a 
king  between  'em!"  "Oh!  Lady  Macbeth."  "Ah,  Sir, 
that's  it — Lady  Macbeth — I  used  to  get  up  with  the  but- 
ler behind  her  carriage  when  she  acted,  and,  as  I  used  to 
see  her  looking  quite  wild,  and  all  the  people  quite  fright- 
ened, 'Ah,  ha !  my  lady,'  says  I,  'if  it  wasn't  for  my  meat, 
though,  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  do  that!'"  "Mr.  Sow- 
erby, you  seem  to  be  a  man  of  feeling;  will  you  take  a 
glass  of  wine?"  After  a  bow  or  two,  down  he  sat,  and 
by  degrees  his  heart  opened.  "You  see,  Sir,  I  have  fed 
Mrs.  Siddons,  Sir;  John  Kemble,  Sir;  Charles  Kemble, 
Sir;  Stephen  Kemble,  Sir;  and  Madame  Catalani,  Sir; 
Morland  the  painter,  and,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,  and 
you,  Sir."  "Mr.  Sowerby,  you  do  me  honour."  "Madame 


148  BENJAMIN   KOBEET   HAYDON     [^Et.  42 

Catalan!,  Sir,  was  a  wonderful  woman  for  sweetbreads; 
but  the  Kemble  family,  Sir,  the  gentlemen,  Sir,  rump- 
steaks  and  kidneys  in  general  was  their  taste;  but  Mrs. 
Siddons,  Sir,  she  liked  chops,,  Sir,  as  much  as  you  do, 
Sir,"  &c.,  &c.  I  soon  perceived  that  the  man's  ambition 
was  to  feed  genius.  I  shall  recommend  you  to  him;  but 
is  he  not  a  capital  fellow?  But  a  little  acting  with  his 
remarks  would  make  you  roar  with  laughter.  Think  of 
Lady  Macbeth  eating  chops !  Is  not  this  a  peep  behind  the 
curtain  ?  I  remember  Wilkie  saying  that  at  a  public  din- 
ner he  was  looking  out  for  some  celebrated  man,  when  at 
last  he  caught  a  glimpse  for  the  first  time  of  a  man  whose 
books  he  had  read  with  care  for  years,  picking  the  leg  of 
a  roast  goose,  perfectly  abstracted! 

.  .  .  Never  will  I  bring  up  my  boys  to  any  profes- 
sion that  is  not  a  matter  of  necessary  want  to  the  world. 
Painting,  unless  considered  as  it  ought  to  be,  is  a  mere 
matter  of  ornament  and  luxury.  It  is  not  yet  taken  up 
as  it  should  be  in  a  wealthy  country  like  England,  and 
all  those  who  devote  themselves  to  the  higher  branches  of 
Art  must  suffer  the  penalty,  as  I  have  done  and  am  doing. 

So  I  was  told,  and  to  no  purpose.  I  opposed  my  father, 
my  mother,  and  my  friends,  though  I  am  duly  gratified 
by  my  fame  in  observant  corners.  Last  week  a  bookstall 
keeper  showed  me  one  of  my  own  books  at  his  stall,  and, 
by  way  of  recommending  it,  pointed  out  a  sketch  of  my 
own  on  the  fly-leaf,  "Which,"  said  he,  "I  suppose  is  by 
Haydon  himself.  Ah!  Sir,  he  was  badly  used — a  disgrace 
to  our  great  men."  "But  he  was  imprudent,"  said  I. 
"Imprudent!"  said  he.  "Yes,  of  course;  he  depended 
on  their  taste  and  generosity  too  much."  "Have  you  any 
more  of  his  books?"  said  I.  "Oh!  I  had  a  great  many; 
but  I  have  sold  them  all,  Sir,  but  this,  and  another  that 
I  will  never  part  with." 

|>Et.  42] 

To  MlSS  MlTFORD 

[EXPERIENCES  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON] 

31st  August,  1828. 

I  have  been  longing  to  write  to  you  since  I  made  a 
pilgrimage  to  Stratford.  Shakespeare  may  or  may  not 


Mt.  42]     BENJAMIN   ROBERT    HAYDON  149 

have  been  born  in  the  room  shown;  but  his  father  can  be 
proved  to  have  bought  the  house  in  1574,  ten  years  after. 
It  may  therefore  be  justly  inferred,  in  the  absence  of 
proof  that  he  lived  anywhere  else  in  the  interval,  that  he 
lived  here,  and  that  his  son  was  born  here  ten  years  be- 
fore he  made  his  purchase ;  and  as  people,  except  on  singu- 
lar emergencies,  are  generally  born  upstairs,  Shakespeare 
may  have  given  his  first  puling  cry  in  the  long,  low  old 
room  still  pointed  out.  But  at  his  grave  all  doubt  van- 
ishes. You  stand  on  the  tombstone  with  the  inscription 
he  himself  wrote  while  living;  you  read  his  pathetic  en- 
treaty and  blessing  on  the  reader  who  revered  his  re- 
mains, and  curses  on  him  who  dared  to  touch;  you  see 
his  bust  put  up  by  his  daughter;  you  hear  the  very  breez- 
ing of  the  trees  he  himself  heard,  and  listen  to  the  hum- 
ming watery  ripple  of  the  river  he  must  often  have  en- 
joyed. The  most  poetical  imagination  could  not  have 
conceived  a  burial-place  more  English,  more  Shakespear- 
ian. As  I  stood  and  looked  up  at  the  unaffected  bust, 
which  bears  evidence  in  the  exquisite  smile  when  seen  in 
profile  of  being  authentic,  and  thought  I  was  standing 
where  Shakespeare  had  often  been,  I  was  deeply  touched. 
The  church  alone,  from  the  seclusion  of  situation,  with 
the  trees,  the  river,  the  tombs,  was  enough  to  make  one 
poetical;  but  add  to  this,  that  the  remains  of  Shake- 
speare, prostrate  and  silent,  were  lying  near  me,  in  a 
grave  he  had  himself  selected,  in  a  church  where  he  had 
often  prayed,  and  with  an  epitaph  he  had  himself  written 
while  living,  it  was  impossible  to  say  where  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  could  an  Englishman  be  more  affected,  or 
feel  deeper  or  morp  touching  sensations.  I  would  not 
have  bartered  my  associations  at  this  unaffected,  seques- 
tered tomb  of  Stratford  for  all  the  classical  delights  of 
the  Troad,  the  Acropolis,  or  Marathon.  The  old  clerk, 
seeing  me  abstracted,  opened  the  door  that  led  to  the 
churchyard  close  to  the  river,  and  left  me  to  myself.  I 
walked  out,  and  lounging  down  to  the  Avon  looked  back 
on  the  church.  The  sun  was  setting  behind  me,  and  a 
golden  light  and  shadow  glittered  on  the  glazed  Gothic 
windows;  and  as  the  trees  waved  tenderly  backwards  and 
forwards,  what  dazzled  your  eyes  one  moment  was  ob- 
scured by  the  foliage  the  next,  and  a  burnished  splendour 


150  BENJAMIN   EGBERT   HAYDON     [Mi.  42 

and  embrowned  shadow  kept  shifting  lazily.  I  was  so 
close  that  the  steeple  towered  up  against  the  sky  like  the 
mast  of  some  mighty  vessel  you  pass  under  at  sea.  I 
stood  and  drank  in  all  that  an  enthusiastic  human  being 
could  feel,  all  that  the  most  ardent  and  devoted  lover  of 
a  great  genius  could  have  a  sensation  of,  and  all  that 
river,  tree,  or  sunset  could  excite  in  addition.  I  was 
quite  lost;  and  returned  to  my  inn  disgusted  at  the 
thoughts  of  food  and  waiters,  and  would  willingly,  if  my 
Creator  had  so  pleased,  have  !;aken  my  flight  to  a  purer 
being  of  "calm  pleasures  01  majestic  pains."  When  I 
got  to  bed  I  'could  not  sleep.  I  tumbled  about,  fancied 
the  pillow  hard,  the  bed  badly  made,  the  sheets  damp,  and 
then  I  sat  up  anol  punched  the  pillow  as  I  have  seen 
chambermaids  do;  but  it  was  all  to  no  purpose;  and  at 
daybreak  I  got  up  in  a  heat  of  eagerness  and  restless  fid- 
get to  get  to  Charlecote.  I  put  the  whole  house  in  an 
uproar;  got  an  early  breakfast,  and  started  off  for  the 
Lucys'  place  as  fast  as  my  legs  would  carry  me.  My 
walking  is  no  joke,  as  you  know,  and  this  morning  I 
would  have  defied  Barclay.  I  met  a  sturdy  gipsy,  and 
after  I  had  passed  him,  remembered  that  I  might  as  well 
ask  the  way  to  Charlecote.  "Right  across  the  corn-field, 
Sir,  and  it  will  bring  you  to  the  back-way."  I  darted 
into  the  pathway,  and  coming  to  a  swinging  gate,  pushed 
it  open,  and  in  a  moment  was  inside  an  ancient  park. 
Trees — full,  tall,  gigantic  and  umbrageous — announced 
the  growth,  indeed,  of  centuries.  As  I  strolled  along  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  old  red-bricked  house,  and  going 
close  to  the  river  side  came  at  once  to  two  enormous  wil- 
lows branching  aslant  the  stream,  such  as  Ophelia  hung 
to.  Every  blade  of  grass,  every  daisy  and  cowslip,  every 
hedge  and  peeping  flower,  every  tuft  of  tawny  earth,  every 
rustling  and  enormous  tree  casting  its  cool  gigantic 
shadow  on  the  sunny  park,  while  the  sheep  dotted  about 
on  the  glittering  green  where  the  sun  streaked  in,  an- 
nounced where  Shakespeare  imbibed  his  early  deep  and 
native  taste  for  landscape  scenery  and  forest  solitude. 
They  spoke  to  me  as  if  Shakespeare  was  whispering  in 
my  ear.  -They  looked  as  if  his  name  was  stamped  by 
nature  on  their  flowers  and  leaves  in  glittering  dewdrops, 
or  gorgeous  colour. 


^Et.  42]     BENJAMIN   EGBERT    HAYDON  151 

I  wondered  I  had  seen  no  deer,  when  looking  .into  the 
shades  I  saw  a  lineal  descendant,  may  be,  of  the  very 
buck  Shakespeare  shot,  and  was  tried  for  shooting,  loung- 
ing on  his  speckled  haunches,  and  staring  at  me;  and 
then  up  jumped  a  beautiful  doe,  which  I  had  not  seen, 
and  sprang  off  as  if  her  feet  were  feathers.  The  house 
was  now  full  in  sight,  and  crossing  a  narrow,  old,  fan- 
tastic and  broken  bridge,  I  came  by  the  back-way  to  the 
entrance  of  the  garden.  Here  sat  a  lady  with  a  parroquet, 
and  a  gardener  cutting  the  grass;  so  fearing  I  had  in- 
truded, I  turned  back  again  to  the  private  entrance,  and 
sent  in  my  compliments  that  I  was  from  London,  and 
begged  permission  to  see  the  house.  Leave  was  granted 
directly.  The  housekeeper,  a  pleasant  woman,  said,  "Here 
is  the  hall  where  Sir  Thomas  tried  Shakespeare."  This 
is  evidently  the  way  the  family  pride  alludes  to  the  fact, 
and  I  dare  say"  servants  and  all  think  Shakespeare  a  dis- 
solute fellow  who  "ought  to  have  been  transported."  I 
am  convinced  the  hall  is  nearly  the  same  as  when  Shake- 
speare was  tried  in  it. 

I  like  Malone's  exquisite  moral  feeling!  He  proves 
there  was  no  park ;  but  might  not  deer  be  enclosed  ?  Deer- 
stealing  was  thought  no  more  of  in  those  days  than  apple- 
stealing  in  these;  and  if  he  did  not  steal  deer,  why  should 
Shakespeare  give  the  Lucy  family  under  Shallow?  And 
in  the  "Winter's  Tale"  say,  "I  would  there  were  no  age 
between  ten  and  three  and  twenty,  or  that  youth  should 
sleep  out  the  rest,  for  there  is  nothing  in  the  between* 
but  .  .  .  wronging  the  ancientry,  stealing,  fighting!" 
His  works  allude  to  the  point  sufficiently  to  make  me  sus- 
pect, and  tradition  renders  it  most  probable.  Admirers 
of  a  genius  must  have  him  a  true  beau  ideal,  like  the 
Apollo;  and  like  the  Apollo,  without  a  single  natural  de- 
tail to  excite  our  sympathies. 

As  I  returned  home,  I  could  not  help  feeling  how  short 
a  road  is  when  in  pursuit  of  an  object,  and  how  long  and 
tedious  when  the  object  is  gained.  It  began  to  rain  with 
vigour,  so  disdaining  the  beaten  path  I  dashed  over  a 
hedge  on  a  voyage  of  discovery.  At  one  time  I  came 
close  to  the  river  stretching  along  like  a  mirror,  reflect- 
ing earth  and  sky,  and  at  another  plumped  upon  a  nest 
of  cottages  embosomed  in  trees,  with  rosy,  scrambling, 


152  BENJAMIN   EGBERT   HAYDON     [yEt.  42 

dirty  children,  squatting  on  broken  steps.  I  pushed  on 
through  flood  and  mud,  and  long  wet  grass  and  beaten- 
down  barley,  and  at  last  got  close  to  Stratford  Bridge. 
At  a  humble  cottage  was  the  sign  of  "The  Plough  and 
Harrow,"  and  "capital  ale"  posted  up.  So,  wet  and 
muddy,  I  walked  in,  and  found  a  pure  specimen  of  a 
country  alehouse.  It  was  quite  a  house  of  Shakespeare's 
time,  everything  neat  and  characteristic.  Smoking  on  a 
back  bench  was  a  country-looking  farmer's  man.  I  dried 
myself  at  the  fire,  and  ordered  some  ale,  and  a  pint  for 
my  smoking  companion.  "Well,"  said  I,  "did  you  ever 
hear  of  Shakespeare  ?"  "Heer  of  un,  ah !"  (puff !  came  out 
a  volley  of  smoke)  "  'ee  warn't  borrn  in  Henley  Street 
tho'a'!"  "Where  then?"  said  I.  "By  the  waathur,"  said 
he.  "Who  told  you  that?"  I  asked.  "Why,  Jahn  Cooper." 
"Jahn  Cooper,"  shrieked  the  landlady,  "why,  what  dus  'ee 
knaw  aboot  it?"  "Nonsense,"  said  the  barmaid  sharply. 
My  pot  companion  gave  a  furious  smoke  at  thus  being 
floored  at  the  beginning  of  his  attempt  to  put  forth  a 
new  theory  for  my  benefit,  looked  at  me  very  grave|y,  and 
prepared  to  overwhelm  me  at  once.  He  puffed  away,  and 
after  taking  a  sip  he  said,  "Ah  zur!  there's  another  won- 
derful feller!"  "Who?"  said  I.  "Why,"  said  he,  "Jahn 
Cooper,  I  tell  'ee."  Restraining  myself  with  a  strong 
effort,  I  said,  "And  what  has  he  done?"  "Dun,"  said  he, 
sitting  back  and  smacking  his  knee,  "dun!"  in  a  voice 
of  thunder,  "why,  zur,  I'll  tell  'ee;"  and  laying  down  his 
'pipe,  and  looking  right  into  my  eyes  under  his  old  weather- 
beaten,  embrowned  hat,  he  leaned  forward,  "I'll  tell  'ee; 
'ee's  lived  'ere  in  this  yeer  town  for  ninety  yeer  as  man 
and  boy,  and  'ee's  never  had  the  toothache,  and  neever  last 
wan!"  I  saw  the  exquisite  beauty  of  this  in  an  instant. 
He  then  took  up  his  pipe,  letting  the  smoke  ooze  from 
the  sides  of  his  mouth,  instead  of  puffing  it  out  horizon- 
tally, till  it  ascended  in  curls  of  conscious  victory  to  the 
ceiling  of  the  apartment,  while  he  leaned  back  his  head 
and  crossed  his  legs  with  an  air  of  superior  intelligence 
as  if  this  conversation  must  now  conclude.  We  were  no 
longer  on  a  level. 


Mt.  54]     BEXJAHIN   EGBERT    HAYDON  153 

[^Et.  54] 

To  His  WIFE 
[THE  TIPSY  UNDERGRADUATE] 

OXFORD,  2nd  March,  1840. 

.  .  .  Last  evening  I  dined  en  famille  with  the  warden 
^oi  New  College,  and  spent  a  very  cheerful  evening.  His 
eldest  daughter  has  a  genius  for  humorous  sketches,  and 
showed  me  two  in  particular  that  made  me  die  with 
laughing;  one  was  that  of  an  undergraduate,  who,  very 
tipsy  one  night,  walked  into  the  warden's  kitchen  in- 
stead of  his  own  rooms,  and  could  not  be  persuaded  of 
his  mistake.  The  servants  therefore  locked  him  in,  and 
called  the  warden,  who  went  down  and  tried  to  persuade 
the  young  gentleman  to  go  to  his  own  rooms,  but  to  no 
purpose.  The  attitude  of  this  drunken  young  scamp, 
standing  on  his  heels  and  resting  against  the  kitchen 
dresser,  with  his  cap  and  tassel  over  his  nose  and  his 
eyes,  doggedly  looking  into  space  between  the  warden's 
legs,  while  the  warden  stood  in  front,  finger  up,  was  per- 
fectly irresistible.  I  laughed  over  it  until  the  tears  came 
into  my  eyes.  It  was  so  true  to  life.  She  is  a  real  genius, 
but  of  course  will  never  develop  her  genius,  because  she 
will  not  have  to  work  for  a  living. 

I  have  learned  more  of  Oxford  these  last  few  days  than 
I  ever  knew  before.  The  undergraduates  abuse  the  Fel- 
lows, the  Fellows  abuse  the  warden,  and  the  warden  com- 
plains of  both.  .  .  . 


26]  LOKD   BYKON 

1788-1824 

To  THOMAS  MOORE 

[ENGAGEMENT  TO  MISS  MILBANKE] 

NEWSTEAD  ABBEY,  Sept.  20,  1814. 

Here's  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh! 

The  girl  who  gave  to  song 
What  gold  could  never  buy. 

My  dear  Moore, — 

I  am  going  to  be  married — that  is,  I  am  accepted,  and 
one  usually  hopes  the  rest  will  follow.  My  mother  of 
the  Gracchi  (that  are  to  be),  you  think  too  strait-laced 
for  me,  although  the  paragon  of  only  children,  and  in- 
vested with  "golden  opinions  of  all  sorts  of  men,"  and 
full  of  "most  blest  conditions"  as  Desdemona  herself. 
Miss  Milbanke  is  the  lady,  and  I  have  her  father's  invi- 
tation to  proceed  there  in  my  elect  capacity, — which,  how- 
ever, I  cannot  do  till  I  have  settled  some  business  in  Lon- 
don, and  got  a  blue  coat. 

She  is  said  to  be  an  heiress,  but  of  that  I  really  know 
nothing  certainly,  and  shall  not  enquire.  But  I  do  know 
that  she  has  talents  and  excellent  qualities;  and  you  will 
not  deny  her  judgment,  after  having  refused  six  suitors 
and  taken  me. 

Now,  if  you  have  anything  to  say  against  this,  pray 
do;  my  mind's  made  up,  positively  fixed,  determined,  and 
therefore  I  will  listen  to  reason,  because  now  it  can  do 
no  harm.  Things  may  occur  to  break  it  off,  but  I  will 
hope  not.  In  the  mean  time,  I  tell  you  (a  secret,  by  the 
by, — at  least,  till  I  know  she  wishes  it  to  be  public)  that 
I  have  proposed  and  am  accepted.  You  need  not  be  in 
a  hurry  to  wish  me  joy,  for  one  mayn't  be  married  for 
months.  I  am  going  to  town  to-morrow:  but  expect  to 
be  here,  on  my  way  there,  within  a  fortnight. 

If  this  had  not  happened,  I  should  have  gone  to  Italy. 
In  my  way  down,  perhaps,  you  will  meet  me  at  Notting- 
ham, and  come  over  with  me  here.  I  need  not  say  that 
nothing  will  give  me  greater  pleasure.  I  must,  of  course, 

154 


Mt.  31]  LORD   BYRON  155 

reform  thoroughly;  and,  seriously,  if  I  can  contribute  to 
her  happiness,  I  shall  secure  my  own.  She  is  so  good  a 
person,  that  —  that  —  in  short,  I  wish  I  was  a  better. 

Ever,  etc. 


31]  .    | 

To  JOHN  MURRAY 

["OUT  OF  SORTS,  OUT  OF  NERVES"] 

BOLOGXA,  August  24,  1819. 
Dear  Sir,  — 

I  wrote  to  you  by  last  post,  enclosing  a  buffooning  let- 
ter for  publication,  addressed  to  the  buffoon  Roberts,  who 
has  thought  proper  to  tie  a  canister  to  his  own  tail.  It 
was  written  off  hand,  and  in  the  midst  of  circumstances 
not  very  favourable  to  facetiousness,  so  that  there  may, 
perhaps,  be  more  bitterness  than  enough  for  that  sort  of 
small  acid  punch.  You  will  tell  me. 

Keep  the  anonymous,  in  every  case:  it  helps  what  fun 
there  may  be;  but  if  the  matter  grows  serious  about  Don 
Juan,  and  you  feel  yourself  in  a  scrape,  or  me  either,  own 
that  I  am  the  author.  I  will  never  shrink;  and  if  you 
do,  I  can  always  answer  you  in  the  question  of  Guati- 
mozin  to  his  minister  —  each  being  on  his  own  coals. 

I  wish  that  I  had  been  in  better  spirits,  but  I  am  out 
of  sorts,  out  of  nerves;  and  now  and  then  (I  begin  to 
fear)  out  of  my  senses.  All  this  Italy  has  done  for  me, 
and  not  England:  I  defy  all  of  you,  and  your  climate  to 
boot,  to  make  me  mad.  But  if  ever  I  do  really  become  a 
Bedlamite,  and  wear  a  strait  waistcoat,  let  me  be  brought 
back  -among  you;  your  people  will  then  be  proper  com- 
pany. 

I  assure  you  what  I  here  say  and  feel  has  nothing  to 
do  with  England,  either  in  a  literary  or  personal  point 
of  view.  All  my  present  pleasures  or  plagues  are  as 
Italian  as  the  Opera.  And  after  all,  they  are  but  trifles, 
for  all  this  arises  from  my  dama's  being  in  the  country 
for  three  days  (at  Capofiume)  ;  but  as  I  could  never  live 
for  but  one  human  being  at  a  time,  (and,  I  assure  you, 
that  one  has  never  been  myself,  as  you  may  know  by  the 
consequences,  for  the  Selfish  are  successful  in  life,)  I  feel 
alone  and  unhappy. 


156  LORD    BYRO^  [^Et.  32 

I  have  sent  for  my  daughter  from  Venice,  and  I  ride 
daily,  and  walk  in  a  Garden,  under  a  purple  canopy  of 
grapes,  and  sit  by  a  fountain,  and  talk  with  the  Gardener 
of  his  toils,  which  seem  greater  than  Adam's,  and  with 
his  wife,  and  with  his  Son's  wife,  who  is  the  youngest 
of  the  party,  and,  I  think,  talks  best  of  the  three.  Then 
I  revisit  the  Campo  Santo,  and  my  old  friend,  the  Sex- 
ton, has  two — but  one  the  prettiest  daughter  imaginable; 
and  I  amuse  myself  with  contrasting  her  beautiful  and 
innocent  face  of  fifteen  with  the  skulls  with  which  he 
has  peopled  several  cells,  and  particularly  with  that  of 
one  skull  dated  1766,  which  was  once  covered  (the  tra- 
dition goes,)  by  the  most  lovely  features  of  Bologna — 
noble  and  rich.  When. I  look  at  these,  and  at  this  girl — 
when  I  think  of  what  they  were,  and  what  she  must  be — 
why,  then,  my  dear  Murray,  I  won't  shock  you  by  saying 
what  I  think.  It  is  little  matter  what  becomes  of  us 
"bearded  men,"  but  I  don't  like  the  notion  of  a  beautiful 
woman's  lasting  less  than  a  beautiful  tree — than  her  own 
picture — her  own  shadow,  which  won't  change  so  to  the 
Sun  as  her  face  to  the  mirror.  I  must  leave  off,  for  my 
head  aches  consumedly :  I  have  never  been  quite  well  since 
the  night  of  the  representation  of  Alfieri's  Mirra,  a  fort- 
night ago. 

Yours  ever, 

B. 
[^Et.  32] 

To  JOHN  MURRAY 
[ANECDOTES  OF  CHARLES  SKINNER  MATTHEWS] 

RAVENNA,  9bre  19,  1820. 
Dear  Murray, — 

What  you  said  of  the  late  Charles  Skinner  Matthews 
has  set  me  to  my  recollections;  but  I  have  not  been  able 
to  turn  up  anything  which  would  do  for  the  purposed 
Memoir  of  his  brother, — even  if  he  had  previously  done 
enough  during  his  life  to  sanction  the  introduction  of 
anecdotes  so  merely  personal.  He  was,  however,  a  very 
extraordinary  man,  and  would  have  been  a  great  one.  No 
one  ever  succeeded  in  a  more  surpassing  degree  than  he 
did  as  far  as  he  went.  He  was  indolent,  too;  but  when- 
ever he  stripped,  he  overthrew  all  antagonists.  His  con- 


.Et.  32]  LOKD   BYRON  157 

quests  will  be  found  registered  at  Cambridge,  particularly 
his  Downing  one,  which  was  hotly  and  highly  contested, 
and  yet  easily  won.  Hobhouse  was  his  most  intimate 
friend,  and  can  tell  you  more  of  him  than  any  man. 
William  Bankes  also  a  great  deal.  I  myself  recollect 
more  of  his  oddities  than  of  his  academical  qualities,  for 
we  lived  most  together  at  a  very  idle  period  of  my  life. 
When  I  went  up  to  Trinity,  in  1805,  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen and  a  half,  I  was  miserable  and  untoward  to  a  de- 
gree. I  was  wretched  at  leaving  Harrow,  to  which  I  had 
become  attached  during  the  two  last  years  of  my  stay 
there;  wretched  at  going  to  Cambridge  instead  of  Ox- 
ford (there  were  no  rooms  vacant  at  Christchurch) ; 
wretched  from  some  private  domestic  circumstances  of 
different  kinds,  and  consequently  about  as  unsocial  as  a 
wolf  taken  from  the  troop.  So  that,  although  I  knew 
Matthews,  and  met  him  often  then  at  Bankes's,  (who  was 
my  collegiate  pastor,  and  master,  and  patron,)  and  at 
Rhode's,  Milnes's,  Price's,  Dick's,  Macnamara's,  Far- 
rell's,  Gaily  I^night's,  and  others  of  that  set  of  contem- 
poraries, yet  I  was  neither  intimate  with  him,  nor  with 
any  one  else,  except  my  old  schoolfellow  Edward  Long 
(with  whom  I  used  to  pass  the  day  in  riding  and  swim- 
ming), and  William  Bankes,  who  was  good-naturedly  tol- 
erant of  my  ferocities. 

It  was  not  till  1807,  after  I  had  been  upwards  of  a  year 
away  from  Cambridge,  to  which  I  had  returned  again  to 
reside  for  my  degree,  that  I  became  one  of  Matthews's 
familiars,  by  means  of  Hobhouse,  who,  after  hating  me 
for  two  years,  because  I  wore  a  white  hat,  and  a  grey  coat, 
and  rode  a  grey  horse  (as  he  says  himself),  took  me  into 
his  good  graces  because  I  had  written  some  poetry.  I  had 
always  lived  a  good  deal,  and  got  drunk  occasionally,  in 
their  company — but  now  we  became  really  friends  in  a 
morning.  Matthews,  however,  was  not  at  this  period 
resident  in  College.  I  met  him  chiefly  in  London,  and 
at  uncertain  periods  at  Cambridge.  Hobhouse,  in  the 
mean  time,  did  great  things:  he  founded  the  Cambridge 
"Whig  Club"  (which  he  seems  to  have  forgotten),  and 
the  "Amicable  Society,"  which  was  dissolved  in  conse- 
quence of  the  members  constantly  quarrelling,  and  made 
himself  very  popular  with  "us  youth,"  and  no  less  for- 


158  LOKD   BYRON  [^Et.  32 

midable  to  all  tutors,  professors,  and  heads  of  Colleges. 
William  Bankes  was  gone;  while  he  stayed,  he  ruled  the 
roast — or  rather  the  roasting — and  was  father  of  all  mis- 
chiefs. 

Matthews  and  I,  meeting  in  London  and  elsewhere, 
became  great  cronies.  He  was  not  good  tempered — nor 
am  I — but  with  a  little  tact  his  temper  was  manageable, 
and  I  thought  him  so  superior  a  man,  that  I  was  willing 
to  sacrifice  something  to  his  humours,  which  were  often, 
at  the  same  time,  amusing  and  provoking.  What  became 
of  his  papers  (and  he  certainly  had  many),  at  the  time 
of  his  death,  was  never  known.  I  mention  this  by  the 
way,  fearing  to  skip  it  over,  and  as  he  wrote  remarkably 
well,  both  in  Latin  and  English.  We  went  down  to  New- 
stead  together,  where  I  had  got  a  famous  cellar,  and 
Monks'  dresses  from  a  masquerade  warehouse.  We  were 
a  company  of  seven  or  eight,  with  an  occasional  neigh- 
bour or  so  for  visitors,  and  used  to  sit  up  late  in  our 
friars'  dresses,  drinking  burgundy,  claret,  and  champagne, 
and  what  not,  out  of  the  skull-cup,  and  all  sorts  of  glasses, 
and  buffooning  all  round  the  house,  in  our  conventual 
garments.  Matthews  always  denominated  me  "the  Ab- 
bot," and  never  called  me  by  any  other  name  in  his  good 
humours,  to  the  day  of  his  death.  The  harmony  of  these 
our  symposia  was  somewhat  interrupted,  a  few  days  after 
our  assembling,  by  Matthews's  threatening  to  throw  Hob- 
house  out  of  a  window,  in  consequence  of  I  know  not 
what  commerce  of  jokes  ending  in  this  epigram.  Hob- 
house  came  to  me  and  said,  that  "his  respect  and  regard 
for  me  as  host  would  not  permit  him  to  call  out  any  of 
my  guests,  and  that  he  should  go  to  town  next  morning." 
He  did.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  represented  to  him  that 
the  window  was  not  high,  and  that  the  turf  under  it  was 
particularly  soft.  Away  he  went. 

Matthews  and  myself  had  travelled  down  from  London 
together,  talking  all  the  way  incessantly  upon  one  single 
topic.  When  we  got  to  Loughborough,  I  know  not  what 
chasm  had  made  us  diverge  for  a  moment  to  some  other 
subject,  at  which  he  was  indignant.  "Come,"  said  he, 
"don't  let  us  break  through — let  us  go  on  as  we  began, 
to  our  journey's  end";  and  so  he  continued,  and  was  as 
entertaining  as  ever  to  the  very  end.  He  had  previously 


Mt.  32]  LORD   BYRON  159 

occupied,  during  my  year's  absence  from  Cambridge,  my 
rooms  in  Trinity,  with  the  furniture;  and  Jones,  the 
tutor,  in  his  odd  way,  had  said,  on  putting  him  in,  "Mr. 
Matthews,  I  recommend  to  your  attention  not  to  damage 
any  of  the  moveables,  for  Lord  Byron,  Sir,  is  a  young 
man.  of  tumultuous  passions/'  Matthews  was  delighted 
with  this;  and  whenever  anybody  came  to  visit  him, 
begged  them  to  handle  the  very  door  with  caution;  and 
used  to  repeat  Jones's  admonition  in  his  tone  and  man- 
ner. There  was  a  large  mirror  in  the  room,  on  which  he 
remarked,  "that  he  thought  his  friends  were  grown  un- 
commonly assiduous  in  coming  to  see  him,  but  he  soon 
discovered  that  they  only  came  to  see  themselves"  Jones's 
phrase  of  "tumultuous  passions"  and  the  .whole  scene, 
had  put  him  into  such  good  humour,  that  I  verily  believe 
that  I  owed  to  it  a  portion  of  his  good  graces. 

When  at  Newstead,  somebody  by  accident  rubbed  against 
one  of  his  white  silk  stockings,  one  day  before  dinner; 
of  course  the  gentleman  apologised.  "Sir,"  answered 
Matthews,  "it  may  be  all  very  well  for  you,  who  have  a 
great  many  silk  stockings,  to  dirty  other  people's;  but 
to  me,  who  have  only  this  one  pair,  which  I  have  put  on 
in  honour  of  the  Abbot  here,  no  apology  can  compensate 
for  such  carelessness;  besides,  the  expense  of  washing." 
He  had  the  same  sort  of  droll  sardonic  way  about  every- 
thing. A  wild  Irishman,  named  Farrell,  one  evening  be- 
gan to  say  something  at  a  large  supper  at  Cambridge; 
Matthews  roared  out  "Silence!"  and  then,  pointing  to 
Farrell,  cried  out  in  the  words  of  the  oracle,  "Orson  is 
endowed  with  reason"  You  may  easily  suppose  that  Or- 
son lost  what  reason  he  had  acquired,  on  hearing  this 
compliment.  When  Hobhouse  published  his  volume  of 
poems,  the  Miscellany  (which  Matthews  would  call  the 
"Miss-sell-any"),  all  that  could  be  drawn  from  him  was, 
that  the  preface  was  "extremely  like  Walsh."  Hobhouse 
thought  this  at  first  a  compliment;  but  we  never  could 
make  out  what  it  was,  for  all  we  know  of  Walsh  is  his 
Ode  to  King  William,  and  Pope's  epithet  of  "knowing 
Walsh"  When  the  Newstead  party  broke  up  for  London, 
Hobhouse  and  Matthews,  who  were  the  greatest  friends 
possible,  agreed,  for  a  whim,  to  walk  together  to  town. 
They  quarrelled  by  the  way,  and  actually  walked  the 


160  LOED    BYRON  [&t.  32 

latter  half  of  the  journey,  occasionally  passing  and  re- 
passing,  without  speaking.  When  Matthews  had  got  to 
Highgate,  he  had  spent  all  his  money  but  three-pence 
halfpenny,  and  determined  to  spend  that  also  in  a  pint  of 
beer,  which  I  believe  he  was  drinking  before  a  public- 
house,  as  Hobhouse  passed  him  (still  without  speaking) 
for  the  last  time  on  their  route.  They  were  reconciled 
in  London  again. 

One  of  Matthews's  passions  was  "the  fancy";  and  he 
sparred  uncommonly  well.  But  he  always  got  beaten  in 
rows,  or  combats  with  the  bare  fist.  In  swimming,  too, 
he  swam  well;  but  with  effort  and  labour,  and  too  high 
out  of  the  water;  so  that  Scrope  Davies  and  myself,  of 
whom  he  was  therein  somewhat  emulous,  always  told  him 
that  he  would  be  drowned  if  ever  he  came  to  a  difficult 
pass  in  the  water.  He  was  so ;  but  surely  Scrope  and  my- 
self would  have  been  most  heartily  glad  that 

"the  Dean  had  lived, 
And  our  prediction  proved  a  lie." 

His  head  was  uncommonly  handsome,  very  like  what 
Pope's  was  in  his  youth. 

His  voice,  and  laugh,  and  features,  are  strongly  re- 
sembled by  his  brother  Henry's,  if  Henry  be  he  of  King's 
College.  His  passion  for  boxing  was  so  great,  that  he 
actually  wanted  me  to  match  him  with  Dogherty  (whom 
I  had  backed  and  made  the  match  for  against  Tom 
Belcher),  and  I  saw  them  spar  together  at  my  own  lodg- 
ings with  the  gloves  on.  As  he  was  bent  upon  it,  I  would 
have  backed  Dogherty  to  please  him,  but  the  match  went 
off.  It  was  of  course  to  have  been  a  private  fight,  in  a 
private  room. 

On  one  occasion,  being  too  late  to  go  home  and  dress, 
he  was  equipped  by  a  friend  (Mr.  Baillie,  I  believe,)  in 
a  magnificently  fashionable  and  somewhat  exaggerated 
shirt  and  neckcloth.  He  proceeded  to  the  Opera,  and 
took  his  station  in  Fop's  Alley.  During  the  interval  be- 
tween the  opera  and  the  ballet,  an  acquaintance  took  his 
station  by  him  and  saluted  him:  "Come  round,"  said 
Matthews,  "come  round." — "Why  should  I  come  round?" 
said  the  other;  "you  have  only  to  turn  your  head — I  am 


Mt.  32]  LOKD   BYRON  161 

close  by  you." — "That  is  exactly  what  I  cannot  do,"  said 
Matthews;  "don't  you  see  the  state  I  am  in?"  pointing 
to  his  buckram  shirt  collar  and  inflexible  cravat, — and 
there  he  stood  with  his  head  always  in  the  same  perpen- 
dicular position  during  the  whole  spectacle. 

One  evening,  after  dining  together,  as  we  were  going 
to  the  Opera,  I  happened  to  have  a  spare  Opera  ticket 
(as  subscriber  to  a  box),  and  presented  it  to  Matthews. 
"Now,  sir,"  said  he  to  Hobhouse  afterwards,  "this  I  call 
courteous  in  the  Abbot — another  man  would  never  have 
thought  that  I  might  do  better  with  half  a  guinea  than 
throw  it  ^o  a  door-keeper; — but  here  is  a  man  not  only 
asks  me  to  dinner,  but  gives  me  a  ticket  for  the  theatre." 
These  were  only  his  oddities,  for  no  man  was  more  liberal, 
or  more  honourable  in  all  his  doings  and  dealings,  than 
Matthews.  He  gave  Hobhouse  and  me,  before  we  set  out 
for  Constantinople,  a  most  splendid  entertainment,  to 
which  we  did  ample  justice.  One  of  his  fancies  was 
dining  at  all  sorts  of  out-of-the-way  places.  Somebody 
popped  upon  him  in  I  know  not  what  coffee-house  in  the 
Strand — and  what  do  you  think  was  the  attraction  ?  Why, 
that  he  paid  a  shilling  (I  think)  to  dine  with  his  hat  on. 
This  he  called  his  "hat  house,"  and  used  to  boast  of  the 
comfort  of  being  covered  at  meal  times. 

When  Sir  Henry  Smith  was  expelled  from  Cambridge 
for  a  row  with  a  tradesman  named  "Hiron,"  Matthews 
solaced  himself  with*  shouting  under  Hiron's  windows 
every  evening, 

"Ah  me!   what  perils  do  environ 
The  man  who  meddles  with  hot  Hiron." 

He  was  also  of  that  band  of  profane  scoffers  who,  under 
the  auspices  of  .  .  .  ,  used  to  rouse  Lort  Mansel  (late 
Bishop  of  Bristol)  from  his  slumbers  in  the  lodge  of 
Trinity;  and  when  he  appeared  at  the  window  foaming 
with  wrath,  and  crying  out,  "I  know  you,  gentlemen,  I 
know  you !"  were  wont  to  reply,  "We  beseech  thee  to  hear 
us,  good  Lort! — Good  Lort,  deliver  us!"  (Lort  was  his 
Christian  name).  As  he  was  very  free  in  his  speculations 
upon  all  kinds  of  subjects,  although  by  no  means  either 
dissolute  or  intemperate  in  his  conduct,  and  as  I  was  no 


162  LOKD    BYRON  [JEt.  3:> 

less  independent,  our  conversation  and  correspondence 
used  to  alarm  our  friend  Hobhouse  to  a  considerable 
degree. 

You  must  be  almost  tired  of  my  packets,  which  will 
have  cost  a  mint  of  postage. 

Salute  Gifford  and  all  my  friends. 

Yours, 

B. 
[^Et.  32] 

To  THOMAS  MOORE 
[AN  ASSASSINATION] 

RAVENNA,  Dec.  9,  1820. 

I  open  my  letter  to  tell  you  a  fact,  which  will  show 
the  state  of  this  country  better  than  I  can.  The  com- 
mandant of  the  troops  is  now  lying  dead  in  my  house. 
He  was  shot  at  a  little  past  eight  o'clock,  about  two  hun- 
dred paces  from  my  door.  I  was  putting  on  my  great- 
coat to  visit  Madame  la  Contessa  G.  when  I  heard  the 
shot.  On  coming  into  the  hall,  I  found  all  my  servants 
on  the  balcony,  exclaiming  that  a  man  was  murdered.  I 
immediately  ran  down,  calling  on  Tita  (the  bravest  of 
them)  to  follow  me.  The  rest  wanted  to  hinder  us  from 
going,  as  it  is  the  custom  for  every  body  here,  it  seems, 
to  run  away  from  "the  stricken  deer." 

However,  down  we  ran,  and  found  him  lying  on  his 
back,  almost,  if  not  quite,  dead,  with  five  wounds;  one 
in  the  heart,  two  in  the  stomach,  one  in  the  finger,  and 
the  other  in  the  arm.  Some  soldiers  cocked  their  guns, 
and  wanted  to  hinder  me  from  passing.  However,  we 
passed,  and  I  found  Diego,  the  adjutant,  crying  over  him 
like  a  child — a  surgeon,  who  said  nothing  of  his  profes- 
sion— a  priest,  sobbing  a  frightened  prayer — and  the  com- 
mandant, all  this  time,  on  his  back,  on  the  hard,  cold 
pavement,  without  light  or  assistance,  or  anything  around 
him  but  confusion  and  dismay. 

As  nobody  could,  or  would,  do  anything  but  howl  and 
pray  and  as  no  one  would  stir  a  finger  to  move  him, 
for  fear  of  consequences,  I  lost  my  patience — made  my 
servant  and  a  couple  of  the  mob  take  up  the  body — sent 
off  two  soldiers  to  the  guard — despatched  Diego  to  the 
Cardinal  with  the  news,  and  had  the  commandant  carried 


Mt.  34]  LORD   BYRON  163 

upstairs  into  my  own  quarter.  But  it  was  too  late,  he 
was  gone  —  not  at  all  disfigured  —  bled  inwardly  —  not  above 
an  ounce  or  two  came  out. 

I  had  him  partly  stripped  —  made  the  surgeon  examine 
him,  and  examined  him  myself.  He  had  been  shot  by 
cut  balls  or  slugs.  I  felt  one  of  the  slugs,  which  had 
gone  through  him,  all  but  the  skin.  Everybody  conjec- 
tures why  he  was  killed,  but  no  one  knows  how.  The 
gun  was  found  close  by  him  —  an  old  gun,  half  filed  down. 

He  only  said,  0  Dio!  and  Gesu!  two  or  three  times, 
and  appeared  to  have  suffered  very  little.  Poor  fellow! 
he  was  a  brave  officer,  but  had  made  himself  much  dis- 
liked by  the  people.  I  knew  him  personally,  and  had  met 
with  him  often  at  conversazioni  and  elsewhere.  My  house 
is  full  of  soldiers,  dragoons,  doctors,  priests,  and  all  kinds 
of  persons,  —  though  I  have  now  cleared  it,  and  clapt 
sentinels  at  the  doors.  To-morrow  the  body  is  to  be 
moved.  The  town  is  in  the  greatest  confusion,  as  you 
may  suppose. 

You  are  to  know  that,  if  I  had  not  had  the  body  moved, 
they  would  have  left  him  there  till  morning  in  the  street, 
for  fear  of  consequences.  I  would  not  choose  to  let  even 
a  dog  die  in  such  a  manner,  without  succour:  —  and,  as 
for  consequences,  I  care  for  none  in  a  duty. 

Yours,  etc. 

P.S.  —  The  lieutenant  on  duty  by  the  body  is  smoking 
his  pipe  with  great  composure.  —  A  queer  people  this. 


.  34] 

To  THOMAS  MOORE 
[BURNING  SHELLEY'S  BODY;  "DON  JUAN"] 

PISA,  August  27,  1822. 

It  is  boring  to  trouble  you  with  "such  small  gear;"  but 
it  must  be  owned  that  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would 
enquire  whether  my  Irish  subscription  ever  reached  the 
committee  in  Paris  from  Leghorn.  My  reasons,  like  Vel- 
lum's, "are  threefold:"  —  First,  I  doubt  the  accuracy  of 
all  almoners,  or  remitters  of  benevolent  cash;  second,  I 
do  suspect  that  the  said.  Committee,  having  in  part  served 
its  time  to  time-serving  may  have  kept  back  the  acknowl- 


164  LOED   BYRON  [Mt.  34 

edgment  of  an  obnoxious  politician's  name  in  their  lists; 
and  third,  I  feel  pretty  sure  that  I  shall  one  day  be 
twitted  by  the  government  scribes  for  having  been  a 
professor  of  love  for  Ireland,  and  not  coming  forward 
with  the  others  in  her  distresses. 

It  is  not  as  you  may  opine,  that  I  am  ambitious  of 
having  my  name  in  the  papers,  as  I  can  have  that  any 
day  in  the  week  gratis.  All  I  want  is  to  know  if  the 
Reverend  Thomas  Hall  did  or  did  not  remit  my  subscrip- 
tion (200  scudi  of  Tuscany,  or  about  a  thousand  francs, 
more  or  less,)  to  the  Committee  at  Paris. 

The  other  day  at  Viareggio,  I  thought  proper  to  swim 
off  to  my  schooner  (the  Bolivar)  in  the  offing,  and  thence 
to  shore  again — about  three  miles,  or  better,  in  all.  As 
it  was  at  mid-day,  under  a  broiling  sun,  the  consequence 
has  beeen  a  feverish  attack,  and  my  whole  skin's  coming 
off,  after  going  through  the  process  of  one  large  continu- 
ous blister,  raised  by  the  sun  and  sea  together.  I  have 
suffered  much  pain;  not  being  able  to  lie  on  my  back, 
or  even  side;  for  my  shoulders  and  arms  were  equally 
St.  Bartholomewed.  But  it  is  over, — and  I  have  got  a 
new  skin,  and  am  as  glossy  as  a  snake  in  its  new  suit. 

We  have  been  burning,  the  bodies  of  Shelley  and  Will- 
iams on  the  seashore,  to  render  them  fit  for  removal  and 
regular  interment.  You  can  have  no  idea  what  an  ex- 
traordinary-effect such  a  funeral  pile  has,  on  a  desolate 
shore,  with  mountains  in  the  back-ground  and  the  sea  be- 
fore, and  the  singular  appearance  the  salt  and  frankin- 
cense gave  to  the  flame.  All  of  Shelley  was  consumed, 
except  his  heart,  which  would  not  take  the  flame,  and  is 
now  preserved  in  spirits  of  wine. 

Your  old  acquaintance  Londonderry  has  quietly  died 
at  North  Cray!  and  the  virtuous  De  Witt  was  torn  in 

pieces  by  the  populace !  What  a  lucky the  Irishman 

has  been  in  his  life  and  end.  In  him  your  Irish  Franklin 
est  mort! 

Leigh  Hunt  is  sweating  articles  for  his  new  Journal; 
and  both  he  and  I  think  it  somewhat  shabby  in  you  not 
to  contribute.  Will  you  become  one  of  the  properrioters? 
"Do,  and  .we  go  snacks."  I  recommend  you  to  think 
twice  before  you  respond  in  the  negative. 

I  have  nearly   (quite  three)   four  new  cantos  of  Don 


.Et.  47]       RICHARD    HARRIS    BARHAM  165 

Juan  ready.  I  obtained  permission  from  the  female  Cen- 
sor Momm  of  my  morals  to  continue  it,  provided  it  were 
immaculate;  so  I  have  been  as  decent  as  need  be.  There 
is  a  deal  of  war — a  siege,  and  all  that,  in  the  style, 
graphical  and  technical,  of  the  shipwreck  in  Canto  Sec- 
ond, which  "took,"  as  they  say  in  the  Row. 

Yours,  etc. 

P.S. — That  .  .  .  Galignani  has  about  ten  lies  in  one 
paragraph.  It  was  not  a  Bible  that  was  found  in  Shelley's 
pocket,  but  John  Keats's  poems.  However,  it  would  not 
have  been  strange,  for  he  was  a  great  admirer  of  Scripture 
as  a  composition.  I  did  not  send  my  bust  to  the  academy 
of  New  York;  but  I  sat  for  my  picture  to  young  West, 
an  American  artist,  at  the  request  of  some  members  of 
that  Academy  to  him  that  he  would  take  my  portrait, — • 
for  the  Academy,  I  believe. 

I  had,  and  still  have,  thoughts  of  South  America,  but 
am  fluctuating  between  it  and  Greece.  I  should  have  gone, 
long  ago,  to  one  of  them,  but  for  my  liaison  with  the 
Countess  G. ;  for  love,  in  these  days,  is  little  compatible 
with  glory.  She  would  be  delighted  to  go  too;  but  I  do 
not  choose  to  expose  her  to  a  long  voyage,  and  a  residence 
in  an  unsettled  country,  where  I  shall  probably  take  a 
part  of  some  sort. 


[^Et.47]      RICHARD  HARRIS  BARHAM 

1788-1845 

To  MASTER  EDWARD  BARHAM  (^ETAT.  8) 
[A  GIFT  OF  BOOKS] 

August  17,  1836. 
My  dear  little  Ned, 
As  I  fear  you  have  read 

All  the  books  that  you  have,  from  great  A  down  to  Z, 
And  your  Aunt,  too,  has  said 
That  you're  very  well  bred, 

And  don't  scream  and  yell  fit  to  waken  the  dead, 
I  think  that  instead 
Of  that  vile  gingerbread 


166  PEECY   BYSSHE    SHELLEY        [^Et.  19 

With  which  little  boys,  I  know,  like  to  be  fed 

(Though,  lying  like  lead 

On  the  stomach,  the  head 
Gets  affected,  of  which  most  mammas  have  a  dread), 

I  shall  rather  be  led 

Before  you  to  spread 
These  two  little  volumes,  one  blue  and  one  red. 

As  three  shillings  have  fled 

From  my  pocket,  dear  Ned, 

Don't  dog's-ear  nor  dirt  them,  nor  read  them  in  bed ! 
Your  affectionate  father, 

E.  H.  B. 

|>Et.l9]       PEECY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 

1792-1822 

To  ELIZABETH  KITCHENER 
[THOMAS  JEFFERSON  HOGG] 
KESWICK,  CHESTNUT  HILL,  CUMBERLAND, 

[Thursday,  14  November,  1811]. 
My  dearest  Friend,— 

Probably  my  letters  have  not  left  Keswick  sufficiently 
long  for  your  answer;.  I  have  more  to  tell  you,  however, 
which  relates  to  this  terrible  affair. 

The  day  we  left  him,  he  wrote  several  letters  to  me, — 
the  first  evidently  in  the  frenzy  of  his  disappointment 
(for  I  had  not  told  him  the  time  of  our  departure).  "I 
will  have  Harriet's  forgiveness,  or  blow  my  brains  out  at 
her  feet."  The  others,  being  written  in  moments  of  tran- 
quillity, appeased  immediate  alarm  on  that  score.  You 
are  already  surprised,  shocked:  I  can  conceive  it.  Oh,  it 
is  terrible!  this  stroke  has  almost  withered  my  being! 
Were  it  not  for  that  dear  friend  whose  happiness  I  so 
much  prize,  which  at  some  future  period  I  may  perhaps 
constitute,— did  I  not  live  for  an  end,  and  aim,  sanctified, 
hallowed, — I  might  have  slept  in  peace.  Yet  no — not 
quite  that :  I  might  have  been  a  colonist  of  Bedlam. 

Stay:  I  promised  to  relate  the  circumstances.  I  will 
proceed  historically. 

I  had  observed  that  Harriet's  behaviour  to  my  friend 
had  been  greatly  altered:  I  saw  she  regarded  him  with 
prejudice  and  hatred.  I  saw  it  with  great  pain,  and  re- 


Mt.  19]        PERCY   BYSSHE    SHELLEY  167 

marked  it  to  her.  Her  dark  hints  of  his  unworthiness 
alarmed  me,  yet  alarmed  me  vaguely;  for,  believe  me, 
this  alarm  was  untainted  with  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
his  disloyalty  to  virtue  and  friendship.  Conceive  my 
horror  when,  on  pressing  the  conversation,  the  secret  of 
his  unfaithfulness  was  divulged!  I  sought  him,  and  we 
walked  to  the  fields  beyond  York.  I  desired  to  know 
fully  the  account  of  this  affair.  I  heard  it  from  him, 
and  I  believe  he  was  sincere.  All  I  can  recollect  of  that 
terrible  day  was  that  I  pardoned  him — freely,  fully  par- 
doned him;  that  I  would  still  be  a  friend  to  him,  and 
hoped  soon  to  convince  him  how  lovely  virtue  was;  that 
his  crime,  not  himself,  was  the  object  of  my  detestation; 
that  I  value  a  human  being,  not  for  what  it  has  been, 
but  for  what  it  is;  that  I  hoped  the  time  would  come 
when  he  would  regard  this  horrible  error  with  as  much 
disgust  as  I  did.  He  said  little:  he  was  pale,  terror- 
struck,  remorseful. 

This  character  is  not  his  own :  it  sits  ill  upon  him, — it 
will  not  long  be  his.  His  account  was  this.  He  came 
to  Edinburgh.  He  saw  me;  *he  saw  Harriet.  He  loved 
her  (I  use  the  word  because  he  used  it.  You  compre- 
hend the  different  ideas  it  excites  under  different  modes 
of  application).  He  loved  her.  This  passion,  so  far  from 
meeting  with  resistance,  was  encouraged, — purposely  en- 
couraged, from  motives  which  then  appeared  to  him  not 
wrong.  On  our  arrival  at  York,  he  avowed  it.  Harriet 
forbade  other  mention;  yet  forbore  to  tell  me,  hoping  she 
might  hear  no  more  of  it.  On  my  departure  from  York 
to  Sussex  (when  you  saw  me),  he  urged  the  same  suit, — 
urged  it  with  arguments  of  detestable  sophistry.  "There 
is  no  injury  to  him  who  knows  it  not: — why  is  it  wrong 
to  permit  my  love,  if  it  does  not  alienate  affection  ?" 
These  failed  of  success.  At  last,  Harriet  talked  to  him 
much  of  its  immorality:  and  (though  I  fear  her  argu- 
ments were  such  as  could  not  be  logically  superior  to  his) 
he  confessed  to  her  his  conviction  of  having  acted  wrong, 
and,  as  some  expiation,  proposed  instantly  to  inform  me 
by  letter  of  the  whole.  This  Harriet  refused  to  permit, 
fearing  its  effect  upon  my  mind  at  such  a  distance:  she 
could  not  know  when  I  should  return  home.  I  returned 
the  very  next  day. 


168  PEKCY   BYSSHE    SHELLEY        [Mt.  26 

This,  a's  near  as  I  recollect,  was  the  substance  of  what 
cool  consideration  can  extract  from  his  account.  The 
circumstances  are  true:  Harriet's  account  coincides. 

I  have  since  written  to  him — frequently,  and  at  great 
length.  His  letters  are  exculpatory :  you  shall  see  them. — 
Adieu  at  present  to  the  subject. 

No,  my  dearest  friend,  I  will  never  cease  to  write  to 
you.  I  never  can  cease  to  think  of  you. 

Happiness,  fleeting  creation  of  circumstances,  where 
art  thou?  I  read  your  letter  with  delight;  but  this  de- 
light is  even  mixed  with  melancholy.  And  you!  Tell 
me  that  you  too  are  unhappy, — .the  cup  of  my  misfortunes 
is  then  completed  to  the  dregs.  Yet  did  you  not  say  that 
we  should  stimulate  each  other  to  virtue?  Shall  I  be 
the  first  to  fail?  No!  This  listless  torpor  of  regret 
will  never  do — it  never  shall  possess  me.  Behold  me  then 
reassuming  myself,  deserving  your  esteem, — you,  my  sec- 
ond self! 

Harriet  has  laughed  at  your  suppositions.  She  invites 
you  to  our  habitation  wherever  we  are:  she  does  this 
sincerely,  and  bids  me  send  her  love  to  you. 

Eliza,  her  sister,  is  with  us.  She  is,  I  think,  a  woman 
rather  superior  to  the  generality.  She  is  prejudiced; 
but  her  prejudices  I  do  not  consider  unvanquishable. 
Indeed,  I  have  already  conquered  some  of  them. 

The  scenery  here  is  awfully  beautiful.  Our  window 
commands  a  view  of  two  lakes,  and  the  giant  mountains 
which  confine  them.  But  the  object  most  interesting  to 
my  feelings  is  Southey's  habitation.  He  is  now  on  a 
journey:  when  he  returns,  I  shall  call  on  him. 

Adieu,  dearest  friend. 

Ever  yours,  with  true  devotement  and  love, 

PERCY  SHELLEY. 

[^t.  26] 

To  THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK 
[LORD  BYRON;  ROME] 

NAPLES,  December  22,  1818. 
My  dear  Peacock, — 

T  have  received  a  letter  from  you  here,  dated  November 
1st;  you  see  the  reciprocation  of  letters  from  the  term 
of  our  travels  is  more  slow.  I  entirely  agree  with  what 


^Et.  26]        PEKCY   BYSSHE    SHELLEY  169 

you  say  about  Childe  Harold.  The  spirit  in  which  it  is 
written  is,  if  insane,  the  most  wicked  and  mischievous 
insanity  that  ever  was  given  forth.  It  is  a  kind  of- 
obstinate  and  self-willed  folly,  in  which  he  hardens  him- 
self. I  remonstrated  with  him  in  vain  on  the  tone  of 
mind  from  which  such  a  view  of  things  alone  arises. 
For  its  real  root  is  very  different  from  its  apparent  one. 
Nothing  can  be  less  sublime  than  the  true  source  of 
these  expressions  of  contempt  and  desperation.  The  fact 
is,  that  first,  the  Italian  women  with  whom  he  associates 
are  perhaps  the  most  contemptible  of  all  who  exist  under 
the  moon — the  most  ignorant,  the  most  disgusting,  the 
most  bigoted;  countesses  smell  so  strongly  of  garlic,  that 
an  ordinary  Englishman  cannot  approach  them.  Well, 
L.  B.  is  familiar  with  the  lowest  sort  of  these  women, 
the  people  his  gondolieri  pick  up  in  the  streets.  He 
associates  with  wretches  who  seem  almost  to  have  lost 
the  gait  and  physiognomy  of  man,  and  who  do  not  scruple 
to  avow  practices,  which  are  not  only  not  named,  but  I 
believe  seldom  even  conceived  in  England.  He  says  he 
disapproves,  but  he  endures.  He  is  heartily  and  deeply 
discontented  with  himself;  and  contemplating  in  the  dis- 
torted mirror  of  his  own  thoughts  the  nature  and  the 
destiny  of  man,  what  can  he  behold  but  objects  of  con- 
tempt and  despair?  But  that  he  is  a  great  poet,  I  think 
the  address  to  Ocean  proves.  And  he  has  a  certain 
degree  of  candour  while  you  talk  to  him,  but  unfortu- 
nately it  does  not  outlast  your  departure.  No,  I  do  not 
doubt,  and  for  his  sake,  I  ought  to  hope,  that  his  present 
career  must  end  soon  in  some  violent  circumstance. 

Since  I  last  wrote  to  you,  I  have  seen  the  ruins  of 
Rome,  the  Vatican,  St.  Peter's,  and  all  the  miracles  of 
ancient  and  modern  art  contained  in  that  majestic  city. 
The  impression  of  it  exceeds  anything  I  have  ever  ex- 
perienced in  my  travels.  We  stayed  there  only  a  week, 
intending  to  return  at  the  end  of  February,  and  devote 
two  or  three  months  to  Its  mines  of  inexhaustible  con- 
templation, to  which  period  I  refer  you  for  a  minute 
account  of  it.  We  visited  the  Forum  and  the  ruins  of  the 
Coliseum  every  day.  The  Coliseum  is  unlike  any  work 
of  human  hands  I  ever  saw  before.  It  is  of  enormous 
height  and  circuit,  and  the  arches  built  of  massy  stones 


170       PEECY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY    [^Et.  26 

are  piled  on  one  another,  and  jut  into  the  blue  air,  shat- 
tered into  the  forms  of  overhanging  rocks.  It  has  been 
changed  by  time  into  the  image  of  an  amphitheatre  of 
rocky  hills  overgrown  by  the  wild  olive,  the  myrtle,  and 
the  fig-tree,  and  threaded  by  little  paths,  which  wind 
among  its  ruined  stairs  and  immeasurable  galleries;  the 
copse-wood  overshadows  you  as  you  wander  through  its 
labyrinths,  and  the  wild  weeds  of  this  climate  of  flowers 
bloom  under  your  feet.  The  arena  is  covered  with  grass, 
and  pierces,  like  the  skirts  of  a  natural  plain,  the  chasms 
of  the  broken  arches  around.  But  a  small  part  of  the 
exterior  circumference  remains — it  is  exquisitely  light  and 
beautiful;  and  the  effect  of  the  perfection  of  its  archi- 
tecture, adorned  with  ranges  of  Corinthian  pilasters,  sup- 
porting a  bold  cornice,  k  such,  as  to  diminish  the  effect 
of  its  greatness.  The  interior  is  all  ruin.  I  can  scarcely 
believe  that  when  encrusted  with  Dorian  marble  and  or- 
namented by  columns  of  Egyptian  granite,  its  effect 
could  have  been  so  sublime  and  so  impressive  as  in  its 
present  state.  It  is  open  to  the  sky,  and  it  was  the 
clear  and  sunny  weather  of  the  end  of  November  in 
this  climate  when  we  visited  it,  day  after  day.  .  .  . 

I  have  told  you  little  about  Rome;  but  I  reserve  the 
Pantheon,  and  St.  Peter's,  and  the  Vatican,  and  Raphael, 
for  my  return.  About  a  fortnight  ago  I  left  Rome,  and 
Mary  and  Claire  followed  in  three  days,  for  it  was  neces- 
sary to  procure  lodgings  here  without  alighting  at  an  inn. 
Erom  my  peculiar  mode  of  travelling  I  saw  little  of 
the  country,  but  could  just  observe  that  the  wild  beauty 
of  the  scenery  and  the  barbarous  ferocity  of  the  inhabi- 
tants progressively  increased.  On  entering  Naples,  the 
first  circumstance  that  engaged  my  attention  was  an  as- 
sassination. A  youth  ran  out  of  a  shop,  pursued  by  a 
woman  with  a  bludgeon,  and  a  man  armed  with  a  knife. 
The  man  overtook  him,  and  with  one  blow  in  the  neck 
laid  him  dead  in  the  road.  On  my  expressing  the  emo- 
tions of  horror  and  indignation  which  I  felt,  a  Calabrian 
priest,  who  travelled  with  me,  laughed  heartily,  and  at- 
tempted to  quiz  me,  as  what  the  English  call  a  flat.  I 
never  felt  such  an  inclination  to  beat  any  one.  Heaven 
knows  I  have  little  power,  but  he  saw  that  I  looked  ex- 
tremely displeased,  and  was  silent.  This  same  man,  a 


Mt.  27]    PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY       171 

fellow  of  gigantic  strength  and  stature,  had  expressed 
the  most  frantic  terror  of  robbers  on  the  road:  he  cried 
at  the  sight  of  my  pistol,  and  it  had  been  with  great 
difficulty  that  the  joint  exertions  of  myself  and  the 
vetturino*  had  quieted  his  hysterics.  .  .  . 

Since  I  wrote  this  I  have  seen  the  museum  of  this 
city.  Such  statues!  There  is  a  Venus;  an  ideal  shape 
of  the  most  winning  loveliness.  A  Bacchus,  more  sub- 
lime than  any  living  being.  A  Satyr,  making  love  to  a 
youth,  in  which  the  expressed  life  of  the  sculpture,  and 
the  inconceivable  beauty  of  the  form  of  the  youth,  over- 
come one's  repugnance  to  the  subject.  There  are  multi- 
tudes of  wonderfully  fine  statues  found  in  Herculaneum 
and  Pompeii.  We  are  going  to  see  Pompeii  the  first  day 
that  the  sea  is  waveless.  Herculaneum  is  almost  filled 
up;  no  more  excavations  are  made;  the  king  bought  the 
ground  and  built  a  palace  upon  it. 

You  don't  see  much  of  Hunt.  I  wish  you  could  con- 
trive to  see  him  when  you  go  to  town,  and  ask  him  what 
he  means  to  answer  to  Lord  Byron's  invitation.  He  has 
now  an  opportunity,  if  he  likes,  of  seeing  Italy.  What 
do  you  think  of  joining  his  party,  and  paying  us  a 
visit  next  year;  I  mean  as  soon  as  the  reign  of  winter  is 
dissolved?  Write  to  me  your  thoughts  upon  this.  I  can- 
not express  to  you  the  pleasure  it  would  give  me  to 
welcome  such  a  party. 

I  have  depression  enough  of  spirits  and  not  good  health, 
though  I  believe  the  warm  air  of  Naples  does  me  good. 
We  see  absolutely  no  one  here. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Peacock, 

affectionately -your  friend, 

P.  B.  S. 
[^Et.  27] 

To  THOMAS  MEDWIN 
["PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND;  THE  CENCI"] 

PISA,  July  20,  1820. 
My  dear  Medwin, — 

I  wrote  to  you  a  day  or  two  ago  at  Geneva.  I  have 
since  received  your  letter  from  the  mountains.  How 
much  I  envy  you,  or  rather  how  much  I  sympathize  in. 

*  Driver. 


172  PEKCY   BYSSHE    SHELLEY        [.Et.  27 

the  delights  of  your  wandering.  I  have  a  passion  for 
such  expeditions,  although  partly  the  capriciousness  of 
my  health,  and  partly  the  want  of  the  incitement  of  a 
companion,  keep  me  at  home.  I  see  the  mountains,  the 
sky,  and  the  trees  from  my  windows,  and  recollect,  as  an 
old  man  does  the  mistress  of  his  youth,  the  raptures  of 
a  more  familiar  intercourse,  but  without  his  regrets,  for 
their  forms  are  yet  living  in  my  mind.  I  hope  you  will 
not  pass  Tuscany,  leaving  your  promised  visit  unpaid. 
I  leave  it  to  you  to  make  the  project  of  taking  up  your 
abode  with  such  an  animal  of  the  other  world  as  I  am, 
agreeable  to  your  friend ;  but  Mrs.  Shelley  unites  with  me 
in  assuring  both  yourself  and  him  that,  whatever  else 
may  be  found  deficient,  a  sincere  welcome  is  at  least 
in  waiting  for  you. 

I  am  delighted  with  your  approbation  of  my  Cenci, 
and  am  encouraged  to  wish  to  present  you  with  Prome- 
theus Unbound,  a  drama  also,  but  a  composition  of  a 
totally  different  character.  I  do  not  know  if  it  be  wise 
to  affect  variety  in  composition,  or  whether  the  attempt 
to  excel  in  many  ways  does  not  debar  from  excellence  in 
one  particular  kind.  Prometheus  Unbound  is  in  the  mer- 
est spirit  of  ideal  poetry,  and  not,  as  the  name  would 
indicate,  a  mere  imitation  of  the  Greek  drama;  or,  in- 
deed, if  I  have  been  successful,  is  it  an  imitation  of 
anything.  But  you  will  judge.  I  hear  it  is  just  printed, 
and  I  probably  shall  receive  copies  from  England  before 
I  see  you.  Your  objection  to  the  Cenci — as  to  the  intro- 
duction of  the  name  of  God — is  good,  inasmuch  as  the 
play  is  addressed  to  a  Protestant  people;  but  we  Catholics 
speak  eternally  and  falniliarly  of  the  First  Person  of  the 
Trinity,  and,  amongst  us,  religion  is  more  interwoven 
with,  and  is  less  extraneous  to,  the  system  of  ordinary 
life.  As  to  Cenci's  Curse,  I  know  not  whether  I  can 
defend  it  or  no.  I  wish  I  may  be  able;  and,  as  it  often 
happens  respecting  the  worst  part  of  an  author's  work, 
it  is  a  particular  favourite  with  me.  I  prided  myself — 
as  since  your  approbation  I  hope  that  I  had  just  cause 
to  do — upon  the  two  concluding  lines  of  the  play.  I 
confess  I  cannot  approve  of  the  squeamishness  which 
excludes  the  exhibition  of  such  subjects  from  the  scene 
— a  squeamishness  the  produce,  as  I  firmly  believe,  of  a 


Mt.  29]        PERCY   BYSSHE    SHELLEY  173 

lower  tone  of  the  public  mind,  and  foreign  to  the  majes- 
tic and  confident  wisdom  of  the  golden  age  of  our 
country.  What  think  you  of  my  boldness  ?  I  mean  to 
write  a  play,  in  the  spirit  of  human  nature,  without 
prejudice  or  passion,  entitled  Charles  the  First.  So  van- 
ity intoxicates  people;  but  let  those  few  who  praise  my 
verses,  and  in  whose  approbation  I  take  so  much  delight, 
answer  for  the  sin.  .' 

I  wonder  what  in  the  world  the  Queen  has  done.  I 
should  not  wonder,  after  the  whispers  I  have  heard,  to 
find  that  the  green  bag  contained  evidence  that  she  had 
imitated  PasiphaB,  and  that  the  Committee  should  rec- 
ommend to  Parliament  a  Bill  to  exclude  all  Minotaurs 
from  the  succession.  What  silly  stuff  is  this  to  employ  a 
great  nation  about.  I  wish  the  King  and  the  Queen, 
like  Punch  and  his  wife,  would  fight  out  their  disputes 
in  person. 

What  is  very  strange,  I  can  in  no  manner  discover 
your  parcels;  I  never  knew  anything  more  unfortunate. 
Klieber  sends  me  your  letters  regularly  (which,  by  the 
bye,  I  wish  in  future  you  would  direct  to  Pisa,  as  I  have 
no  money  business  now  in  Florence),  but  he  has  heard 
of  no  parcel  or  book. 

This  warm  weather  agrees  excellently  with  me.  I  only 
wish  it  would  last  all  the  year.  Many  things  both  to 
say  and  to  hear  be  referred  until  we  meet. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

P.  B.  S. 
[.Et.  29] 

To  LEIGH  HUNT 

[A    PROPOSAL    CONCERNING    A    PERIODICAL] 

PISA,  August  26th,  1821. 
My  dearest  Friend, — 

Since  I  last  wrote  to  you,  I  have  been  on  a  visit  to 
Lord  Byron  at  Ravenna.  The  result  of  this  visit  was  a 
determination  on  his  part  to  come  and  live  at  Pisa;  and 
I  have  taken  the  finest  palace  on  the  Lung'  Arno  for  him. 
But  the  material  part  of  my  visit  consists  in  a  message 
which  he  desires  me  to  give  you,  and  which  I  think  ought 
to  add  to  your  determination — for  such  a  one  I  hope  you 
have  formed — of  restoring  your  shattered  health  and  spirits 


174  PERCY   BYSSHE    SHELLEY        [,Et.  29 

by  a  migration  to  these  "regions  mild  of  calm  and 
serene  air." 

He  proposes  that  you  should  come  and  go  shares  with 
him  and  me,  in  a  periodical  work,  to  be  conducted  here; 
in  which  each  of  the  contracting  parties  should  publish 
all  their  original  compositions,  and  share  the  profits..  He 
proposed  it  to  Moore,  but  for  some  reason  it  was  never 
brought  to  bear.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  profits 
of  any  scheme  in  which  you  and  Lord  Byron  engage, 
must,  from  various,  yet  co-operating  reasons,  be  very 
great.  As  for  myself,  I  am,  for  the  present,  only  a  sort 
of  link  between  you  and  him,  until  you  can  know  each 
other  and  effectuate  the  arrangement;  since  (to  intrust 
you  with  a  secret  which,  for  your  sake,  I  withhold  from 
Lord  Byron)  nothing  would  induce  me  to  share  in  the 
profits,  and  still  less  in  the  borrowed  splendour  of  such 
a  partnership.  You  and  he,  in  different  manners,  would 
be  equal,  and  would  bring,  in  a  different  manner,  but  in 
the  same  proportion,  equal  stocks  of  reputation  and  suc- 
cess. Do  not  let  my  frankness  with  you,  nor  my  belief 
that  you  deserve  it  more  than  Lord  Byron,  have  the 
effect  of  deterring  you  from  assuming  a  station  in  modern 
literature,  which  the  universal  voice  of  my  contemporaries 
forbids  me  either  to  stoop  or  to  aspire  to.  I  am,  and  I 
desire  to  be,  nothing. 

I  did  not  ask  Lord  Byron  to  assist  me  in  sending  a 
remittance  for  your  journey;  because  there  are  men, 
however  excellent,  from  whom  we  would  never  receive 
an  obligation,  in  the  worldly  sense  of  the  word;  and  I 
am  as  jealous  for  my  friend  as  for  myself.  I,  as  you 
know,  have  it  not:  but  I  suppose  that  at  last  I  shall 
make  up  an  impudent  face,  and  ask  Horace  Smith  to 
add  to  the  many  obligations  he  has  conferred  on  me. 
I  know  I  need  only  ask. 

I  think  I  have  never  told  you  how  very  much  I  like 
your  Amyntas;  it  almost  reconciles  me  to  Translations. 
In  another  sense,  I  still  demur.  You  might  have  written 
another  such  poem  as  the  "Nymphs,"  with  no  great  ac- 
cess of  effort.  I  am  full  of  thoughts  and  plans,  and 
should  do  something  if  the  feeble  and  irritable  frame 
which  incloses  it  was  willing  to  obey  the  spirit.  I 
fancy  that  then  I  should  do  great  things.  Before  this 


m.  29]        PEECY   BYSSHE    SHELLEY  175 

you  will  have  seen  "Adonais."  Lord  Byron,  I  suppose 
from  modesty  on  account  of  his  being  mentioned  in  it, 
did  not  say  a  word  of  "Adonais,"  though  he  was  loud  in 
his  praise  of  "Prometheus":  and,  what  you  will  not 
agree  •  with  him  in,  censure  of  the  "Cenci."  Certainly, 
if  "Marino  Faliero"*  is  a  drama,  the  "Cenci"  is  not: 
but  that  between  ourselves.  Lord  Byron  is  reformed,  as 
far  as  gallantry  goes,  and  lives  with  a  beautiful  and 
sentimental  Italian  lady,  who  is  as  much  attached  to 
him  as  may  be.  I  trust  greatly  to  his  intercourse  with 
you,  for  his  creed  to  become  as  pure  as  he  thinks  his 
conduct  is.  He  has  many  generous  and  exalted  qualities, 
but  the  canker  of  aristocracy  wants  to  be  cut  out.  .  .  . 


.  29] 

To  THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK 
["CAIN;  ADONAIS;  HELLAS"] 

PISA,  January   [probably  llth],  1822. 
My  dear  Peacock, — 

...  I  am  still  at  Pisa,  where  I  have  at  length  fitted 
up  some  rooms  at  the  top  of  a  lofty  palace  that  overlooks 
the  city  and  the  surrounding  region,  and  have  collected 
books  and  plants  about  me,  and  established  myself  for 
some  indefinite  time,  which,  if  I  read  the  future,  will  not 
be  short.  I  wish  you  to  send  my  books  by  the  very  first 
opportunity,  and  I  expect  in  them  a  great  augmentation 
of  comfort.  Lord  Byron  is  established  here,  and  we  are 
constant  companions.  No  small  relief  this,  after  the 
dreary  solitude  of  the  understanding  and  the  imagination 
in  which  we  past  the  first  years  of  our  expatriation, 
yoked  to  all  sorts  of  miseries  and  discomforts. 

Of  course  you  have  seen  his  last  volume,  and  if  you 
before  thought  him  a  great  poet,  what  is  your  opinion 
now  that  you  have  read  Cain!  The  Foscari  and  Sar- 
danapalus  I  have  not  seen;  but  as  they  are  in  the  style 
of  his  later  writings,  I  doubt  not  they  are  very  fine. 
We  expect  Hunt  here  every  day,  and  remain  in  great 
anxiety  on  account  of  the  heavy  gales  which  he  must 

*  Byron's  Marino  Faliero  was  published  in  1821;  The  Cenci  had  ap- 
peared in  1819. 


176       PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY    [Mt.  29 

have  encountered  at  Christmas.  Lord  Byron  has  fitted 
up  the  lower  apartments  of  his  palace  for  him,  and  Hunt 
will  be  agreeably  surprised  to  find  a  commodious  lodging 
prepared  for  him  after  the  fatigues  and  dangers  of  his 
passage.  I  have  been  long  idle,  and,  as  far  as  writing 
goes,  despondent;  but  I  am  now  engaged  on  Charles  the 
First*  and  a  devil  of  a  nut  it  is  to  crack. 

Mary  and  Clara  (who  is  not  with  us  just  at  present) 
are  well,  and  so  is  our  little  boy,  the  image  of  poor 
William.  We  live  as  usual,  tranquilly.  I  get  up,  or  at 
least  wake  early;  read  and  write  till  two;  dine;  go  to 
Lord  B.'s,  and  ride,  or  play  billiards,  as  the  weather 
permits;  and  sacrifice  the  evening  either  to  light  books 
or  whoever  happens  to  drop  in.  Our  furniture,  which 
is  very  neat,  cost  fewer  shillings  than  that  at  Marlow 
did  pounds  sterling;  and  our  windows  are  full  of  plants, 
which  turn  the  sunny  winter  into  spring.  My  health  is 
better — my  cares  are  lighter;  and  although  nothing  will 
cure  the  consumption  of  my  purse,  yet  it  drags  on  a  sort 
of  life  in  death,  very  like  its  master,  and  seems,  like 
Fortunatus's,  always  empty  yet  never  quite  exhausted. 
You  will  have  seen  my  Adonais  and  perhaps  my  Hellas, 
and  I  think,  whatever  you  may  judge  of  the  subject,  the 
composition  of  the  first  poem  will  not  wholly  displease 
you.  I  wish  I  had  something  better  to  do  than -furnish 
this  jingling  food  for  the  hunger  of  oblivion,  called 
verse,  but  I  have  not;  and  since  you  give  me  no  encour- 
agement about  India  I  cannot  hope  to  have. 

How  is  your  little  star,  and  the  heaven  which  contains 
the  milky  way  in  which  it  glimmers? 

Adieu. — Yours  ever  most  truly, 

S. 

*  Not  finished.      Shelley  was  drowned  in  the  following  August. 


[^Et.26]     WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

1794-1878 

To   HIS   MOTHER 

[HIS  MARRIAGE] 

June,   1821. 
D ear  Mother, — 

I  hasten  to  send  you  the  melancholy  intelligence  of 
what  has  lately  happened  to  me. 

Early  on  the  evening  of  the  eleventh  day  of  the  present 
month  I  was  at  a  neighboring  house  in  this  village. 
Several  people  of  both  sexes  were  assembled  in  one  of 
the  apartments,  and  three  or  four  others,  with  myself, 
were  in  another.  At  last  came  in  a  little  elderly  gen- 
tleman, pale,  thin,  with  a  solemn  countenance,  pleuritic 
voice,  hooked  nose,  and  hollow  eyes.  It  was  not  long 
before  we  were  summoned  to  attend  in  the  apartment 
where  he  and  the  rest  of  the  company  were  gathered. 
We  went  in  and  took  our  seats;  the  little  elderly  gentle- 
-  man  with  the  hooked  nose  prayed,  and  we  all  stood  up. 
When  he  had  finished,  most  of  us  sat  down.  The  gentle- 
man with  the  hooked  nose  then  muttered  certain  cabalist- 
ical  expressions  which  I  was  too  much  frightened  to  re- 
member, but  I  recollect  that  at  the  conclusion  I  was 
given  to  understand  that  I  was  married  to  a  young  lady 
of  the  name  of  Frances  Fairchild,  whom  I  perceived 
standing  by  my  side,  and  I  hope  in  the  course  of  a  few 
months  to  have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  to  you  as 
your  daughter-in-law,  which  is  a  matter  of  some  interest 
to  the  poor  girl,  who  has  neither  father  nor  mother  ill 
the  world. 

I  have  not  "played  the  fool  and  married  an  Ethiop  for 
the  jewel  in  her  ear."  I  looked  only  for  goodness  of 
heart,  an  ingenuous  and  affectionate  disposition,  a  good 
understanding,  etc.,  and  the  character  of  my  wife  is  too 
frank  and  single-hearted  to  suffer  me  to  fear  that  I  may 
be  disappointed.  I  do  myself  wrong;  I  did  not  look 
for  these  nor  any  other  qualities,  but  they  trapped  me 
before  I  was  aware,  and  now  I  am  married  in  spite  of 
myself. 

Thus  the  current  of  destiny  carries  us  along.  None  but 
a  madman  would  swim  against  the  stream,  and  none  but 

177 


178  WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT       [,Et.  37 

a  fool  would  exert  himself  to  swim  with.  it.  The  best 
way  is  to  float  quietly  with  the  tide.  So  much  for 
philosophy — now  to  business.  .  .  . 

Your  affectionate  son, 

WILLIAM. 
l&t.  37] 

To  R.  H.  DANA 
[CHOLERA;  JOURNEY  TO  ILLINOIS] 

NEW  YORK,  October  8,  1832. 
My  dear  Sir, — 

.  .  .  You  are  right;  we  have  had  a  fearful  time  in 
New  York,  the  pestilence  striking  down  its  victims  on 
the  right  hand  and  the  left,  often  at  noon-day,  but  mostly 
in  darkness,  for  of  the  thousands  who  had  the  disorder 
three  quarters  were  attacked  at  the  dead  of  night.  I 
have  been  here  from  the  12th  of  July,  when  I  returned 
from  the  westward,  till  the  present  time,  coming  every 
morning  from  Hoboken  to  attend  to  my  daily  occupation, 
every  morning  witnessing  the  same  melancholy  spectacle 
of  deserted  and  silent  streets  and  forsaken  dwellings,  and 
every  day  looking  over  and  sending  out  to  the  world  the 
list  of  the  sick  and  dead.  My  own  health  and  that  of 
my  wife  and  youngest  child  in  the  meantime  have  been 
bad,  with  a  feeling  in  the  stomach  like  that  produced 
by  taking  lead  or  some  other  mineral  poison.  Since  the 
second  week  in  September  the  state  of  things  has  changed, 
and  my  own  health  was  never  better  than  it  is  at  this 
moment.  .  .  . 

I  have  seen  the  great  West,  where  I  ate  corn  bread  and 
hominy,  slept  in  log  houses,  with  twenty  men,  women, 
and  children  in  the  same  room.  ...  At  Jacksonville, 
where  my  two  brothers  live,  I  got  on  a  horse,  and  trav- 
elled about  a  hundred  miles  to  the  northward  over  the 
immense  prairies,  with  scattered  settlements,  on  the  edges 
of  the  groves.  These  prairies,  of  a  soft,  fertile  garden 
soil,  and  a  smooth,  undulating  surface,  on  which  you  may 
put  a  horse  to  full  speed,  covered  with  high,  thinly 
growing  grass,  full  of  weeds  and  gaudy  flowers,  and 
destitute  of  bushes  or  trees,  perpetually  brought  to  my 
mind  the  idea  of  their  having  been  once  cultivated. 
They  look  to  me  like  the  fields  of  a  race  which  had 


.Et.  42]       WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT  179 

passed  away,  whose  enclosures  and  habitations  had  de- 
cayed, but  on  whose  vast  and  rich  plains,  smoothed  and 
levelled  by  tillage,  the  forest  had  not  yet  encroached.  .  .  . 


|>Et.  42] 

To  His  WIFE 

[A    QUARREL    BETWEEN    EDITORS] 

NEW  YORK,  August  21st,   [1837.] 

My  friends,  when  they  meet  me,  congratulate  me  on 
being  yet  alive.  You  will  ask  what  this  means.  On 
Saturday  last  I  received  a  challenge.  A  good-natured, 
well-bred  man,  Reynolds,  who  formerly  lectured  on  Cap- 
tain Symmes's  "Theory  of  the  Earth,"  and  who  has 
been  appointed  historiographer  of  the  expedition  now 
fitting  out  for  the  South  Seas,  walked  into  the  office  on 
"unpleasant  business,"  as  he  called  it,  and  presented  me 
a  written  invitation  to  fight  a  duel,  from  a  man  named 
Holland,  one  of  the  editors  of  the  "Times"  newspaper. 
Holland  had  taken  offence  at  something  which  appeared 
in  the  "Evening  Post"  on  the  subject  of  the  "Times," 
and  wrote  to  me  for  an  explanation.  My  answer  did  not 
satisfy  him;  he  wrote  again;  I  declined  giving  any  other 
answer,  and  so  he  asked  me  to  fight.  I  told  Mr.  Reynolds 
that  when  Mr.  Leggett,*  a  gentleman  of  strict  honor, 
was  associated  with  me  in  the  conduct  of  the  "Evening 
Post,"  he  wrote  Holland  word  that  he  was  a  scoundrel, 
which  he  chose  to  take  quietly.  I  said  that  Holland  must 
settle  that  affair  first,  and  that  then  I  would  consider 
whether  his  note  deserved  any  further  reply.  Reynolds 
was  very  anxious  to  persuade  me  to  give  some  other 
answer,  and  said  that  the  affair  might  easily  be  adjusted. 
He  would  not  take  back  my  note  to  Holland,  so  I  wrote 
down  what  I  had  given  above  as  my  answer,  and  sent  it 
by  a  boy.  When  you  come  down  you  shall  see  the  cor- 
respondence. My  friends  are  much  amused  at  my  having 
got  into  such  a  scrape,  and  laugh  heartily  at  the  idea 
that  a  popinjay  who  curls  his  whiskers  should  think  to 
engage  me  in  a  duel. 

*  William  Leggett  (1802-1839.)  Fought  a  duel  at  Weehawken,  with 
Blake  of  the  Park  Theatre. 


180  WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT       [^Et.  76 

[>Et.  76] 

To  JOSEPH  H.  RICHARDS 
[BRYANT'S    MANNER   OF    LIFE   AT    SEVENTY-SIX] 

NEW  YORK,  March  30th,  1871. 

.  .  I  rise  early,  at  this  time  of  the  year  about  half 
past  five ;  in  summer  half  an  hour,  or  even  an  hour,  earlier. 
Immediately,  with  very  little  encumbrance  of  clothing, 
I  begin  a  series  of  exercises,  for  the  most  part  designed 
to  expand  the  chest,  and  at  the  same  time  call  into  action 
all  the  muscles  and  articulations  of  the  body.  These  are 
performed  with  dumb-bells — the  very  lightest,  covered 
with  flannel — with  a  pole,  a  horizontal  bar,  and  a  light 
chair  swung  round  my  head.  After  a  full  hour,  and 
sometimes  more,  passed  in  this  manner,  I  bathe  from 
head  to  foot.  When  at  my  place  in  the  country  I  some- 
times shorten  my  exercises  in  the  chamber,  and,  going 
out,  occupy  myself  in  some  work  which  requires  brisk 
motion.  After  my  bath,  if  breakfast  be  not  ready,  I 
sit  down  to  my  studies  till  I  am  called. 

My  breakfast  is  a  simple  one — hominy  and  milk,  or, 
in  place  of  hominy,  brown  bread,  or  oatmeal,  or  wheaten 
grits,  and,  in  the  season,  baked  sweet  apples.  Buckwheat 
cakes  I  do  not  decline,  nor  any  other  article  of  vegetable 
food,  but  animal  food  I  never  take  at  breakfast.  Tea  and 
coffee  I  never  touch  at  any  time;  sometimes  I  take  a 
cup  of  chocolate,  which  has  no  narcotic  effect,  and  agrees 
with  me  very  well.  At  breakfast  I  often  take  fruit, 
either  in  its  natural  state  or  freshly  stewed. 

After  breakfast  I  occupy  myself  for  a  while  with  my 
studies;  and  when  in  town  I  walk  down  to  the  office  of 
the  "Evening  Post,"  nearly  three  miles  distant,  and 
after  about  three  hours  return,  always  walking,  whatever 
be  the  weather  or  the  state  of  the  streets.  In  the  coun- 
try I  am  engaged  in  my  literary  tasks  till  a  feeling  of 
weariness  drives  me  out  into  the  open  air,  and  I  go  upon 
my  farm  or  into  the  garden,  and  prune  the  fruit-trees 
or  perform  some  other  work  about  them  which  they 
need,  and  then  go  back  to  my  books.  I  do  not  often 
drive  out,  preferring  to  walk. 

In  the  country  I  dine  early,  and  it  is  only  at  that  meal 
that  I  take  either  meat  or  fish,  and  of  these  but  a  mod- 


^Et.  44]  THOMAS    AENOLD  181 

erate  quantity,  making  my  dinner  mostly  of  vegetables. 
At  the  meal  which  is  called  tea  I  take  only  a  little  bread 
and  butter,  with  fruit,  if  it  be  on  the  table.  In  town, 
where  I  dine  later,  I  make  but  two  meals  a  day.  Fruit 
makes  a  considerable  part  of  my  diet,  and  I  eat  it  at  al- 
most any  hour  of  the  day  without  inconvenience.  My 
drink  is  water,  yet  I  sometimes,  though  rarely,  take  a 
glass  of  wine.  I  am  a  natural  temperance  man,  finding 
myself  rather  confused  than  exhilarated  by  wine.  I 
never  meddle  with  tobacco,  except  to  quarrel  with  its  use. 
That  I  may  rise  early,  I,  of  course,  go  to  bed  early; 
in  town  as  early  as  ten;  in  the  country  somewhat  earlier. 
For  many  years  I  have  avoided  in  the  evening  every 
kind  of  literary  occupation  which  tasks  the  faculties,  such 
as  composition,  even  to  the  writing  of  letters,  for  the 
reason  that  it  excites  the  nervous  system  and  prevents 
sound  sleep.  My  brother  told  me  not  long  since  that  he 
had  seen  in  a  Chicago  newspaper,  and  several  other  west- 
ern journals,  a  paragraph  in  which  it  was  said  that  I 
am  in  the  habit  of  taking  quinine  as  a  stimulant,  that 
I  have  depended  on  the  excitement  it  produces  in  writing 
my  verses,  and  that,  in  consequence  of  using  it  in  that 
way,  I  have  become  as  deaf  as  a  post.  As  to  my  deafness, 
you  know  that  to  be  false;  and  the  rest  of  the  story  is 
equally  so.  I  abominate  drugs  and  narcotics,  and  have 
always  carefully  avoided  anything  which  spurs  nature  to 
exertions  which  it  would  not  otherwise  make.  Even  with 
my  food  I  do  not  take  the  usual  condiments,  such  as 
pepper  and  the  like. 


[^t.44]  THOMAS    AKNOLD 

1795-1842 

To  THE  EEV.  G-.  CORNISH 
[OBJECTION  TO  DICKENS;  WORDSWORTH] 

Fox  How,  July  6,  1839. 

...  As  I  believe  that  the  English  universities  are  the 
best  places  in  the  world  for  those  who  can  profit  by  them, 
so  I  think  for  the  idle  and  self-indulgent  they  are  about 
the  very  worst,  and  I  would  far  rather  send  a  boy  to 
Van  Diemen's  Land,  where  he  must  work  for  his  bread, 


182  THOMAS    AKNOLD  [^Et.  44 

than  send  him  to  Oxford  to  live  in  luxury,  without  any 
desire  in  his  mind  to  avail  himself  of  his  advantages. 
Childishness  in  boys,  even  of  good  abilities,  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  growing  fault,  and  I  do  not  know  to  what  to 
ascribe  it,  except  to  the  great  number  of  exciting  books 
of  amusement,  like  Pickwick  and  Nickleby,  Bentley's 
Magazine,  &c.,  &c.  These  completely  satisfy  all  the  in- 
tellectual appetite  of  a  boy,  which  is  rarely  very  vora- 
cious, and  leave  him  totally  palled,  not  only  for  his  regu- 
lar work,  which  I  could  well  excuse  in  comparison,  but 
for  good  literature  of  all  sorts,  even  for  History  and 
for  Poetry. 

I  went  up  to  Oxford  to  the  Commemoration,  for  the 
first  time  for  twenty-one  years,  to  see  Wordsworth  and 
Bunsen  receive  their  degrees;  and  to  me,  remembering 
how  old  Coleridge  inoculated  a  little  knot  of  us  with  the 
love  of  Wordsworth,  when  his  name  was  in  general  a 
byword,  it  was  striking  to  witness  the  thunders  of  ap- 
plause, repeated  over  and  over  again,  with  which  he  was 
greeted  in  the  theatre  by  Undergraduates  and  Masters 
of  Arts  alike. 


|>Et.  44] 

To  H.  BALSTON 
[QUALIFICATIONS  OF  A  TEACHER] 

BUGBY,  November  21,  1839. 

.  .  .  With  regard  to  the  questions  in  your  letter,  I  hold 
that  to  a  great  degree  in  the  choice  of  a  profession, 
"sua  cuique  Deus  fit  dira  cupido,"  a  man's  inclination  for 
a  calling  is  a  great  presumption  that  he  either  is  or  will 
be  fit  for  it.  And  in  education  this  holds  very  strongly, 
for  he  who  likes  boys  has  probably  a  daily  sympathy 
with  them;  and  to  be  in  sympathy  with  the  mind  you 
propose  to  influence  is  at  once  indispensable,  and  will 
enable  you  in  a  great  degree  to  succeed  in  influencing  it. 

Another  point  to  which  I  attach  much  importance  is 
liveliness..  This  seems  to  me  an  essential  condition  of 
sympathy  with  creatures  so  lively  as  boys  are  naturally, 
and  it  is  a  great  matter  to  make  them  understand  that 
liveliness  is  not  folly  or  thoughtlessness.  Now  I  think 


Mt.  21]  JOHN   KEATS  183 

the  prevailing  manner  amongst  many  very  valuable  men 
at  Oxford  is  the  very  opposite  to  liveliness;  and  I  think 
that  this  is  the  case  partly  with  yourself;  not  at  all  from 
affectation,  but  from  natural  temper,  encouraged,  per- 
haps, rather  than  checked,  by  a  belief  that  it  is  right 
and  becoming.  But  this  appears  to  me  to  be  in  point  of 
manner  the  great  difference  between  a  clergyman  with  a 
parish  and  a  schoolmaster.  It  is  an  illustration  of  St. 
Paul's  rule,  "Rejoice  with  them  that  rejoice,  and  weep 
with  them  that  weep."  A  clergyman's  intercourse  is  very 
much  with  the  sick  and  the  poor,  where  liveliness  would 
be  greatly  misplaced;  but  a  schoolmaster's  is  with  the 
young,  the  strong,  and  the  happy,  and  he  cannot  get  on 
with  them  unless  in  animal  spirits  he  can  sympathize 
with  them,  and  show  them  that  his  thoughtfulness  is  not 
connected  with  selfishness  and  weakness.  At  least  this 
applies,  I  think,  to  a  young  man;  for  when  a  teacher  gets 
to  an  advanced  age,  gravity,  I  suppose,  would  not  mis- 
become him,  for  liveliness  might  then  seem  unnatural,  and 
his  sympathy  with  boys  must  be  limited,  I  suppose,  then, 
to  their  great  interests  rather  than  their  feelings.  .  .  . 


|>Et.  21]  JOHN   KEATS 

1795-1821 
To  J.  H.  REYNOLDS 

["l  FIND   THAT  I   CANNOT   EXIST   WITHOUT   POETRY"] 

CARISBROOKE,  April  17th,  1817. 
My  dear  Reynolds, 

Ever  since  I  wrote  to  my  brother  from  Southampton, 
I  have  been  in  a  taking,  and  at  this  moment  I  am  about 
to  become  settled,  for  I  have  unpacked  my  books,  put 
them  into  a  snug  corner,  pinned  up  Haydon,  Mary  Queen 
[of]  Scots,  and  Milton  with  his  daughters  in  a  row.  In 
the  passage  I  found  a  head  of  Shakespeare,  which  I  had 
•  not  before  seen.  It  is  most  likely  the  same  that  George 
spoke  so  well  of,  for  I  like  it  extremely.  Well,  this  head 
I  have  hung  over  my  books,  just  above  the  three  in  a 
row,  having  first  discarded  a  French  Ambassador;  now 
this  alone  is  a  good  morning's  work.  Yesterday  I  went 
to  Shanklin,  which  occasioned  a  great  debate  in  my  mind 


184  JOHN   KEATS  [Mt.  21 

whether  I  should  live  there  or  at  Carisbrooke.  Shanklin 
is  a  most  beautiful  place;  sloping  wood  and  meadow 
ground  reach  round  the  Chine,  which  is  a  cleft  between 
the  cliffs,  of  the  depth  of  nearly  300  feet  at  least.  This 
cleft  is  filled  with  trees  and  bushes  in  the  narrow  part; 
and  as  it  widens  becomes  bare,  if  it  were  not  for  prim- 
roses on  one  side,  which  spread  to  the  very  verge  of  the 
sea,  and  some  fishermen's  huts  on  the  other,  perched  mid- 
way in  the  balustrades  of  beautiful  green  hedges  along 
their  steps  down  to  the  sands.  But  the  sea,  Jack,  the 
sea,  the  little  waterfall,  then  the  white  cliff,  then  St. 
Catherine's  Hill,  "the  sheep  in  the  meadows,  the  cows 
in  the  corn."  Then  why  are  you  at  Carisbrooke?  say 
you.  Because,  in  the  first  place,  I  should  be  at  twice 
the  expense,  and  three  times  the  inconvenience;  next, 
that  from  here  I  can  see  your  continent  from  a  little  hill 
close  by,  the  whole  north  angle  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  with 
the  water  between  us;  in  the  third  place,  I  see  Caris- 
brooke Castle  from  my  window,  and  have  found  several 
delightful  wood-alleys,  and  copses,  and  quick  freshes;  as 
for  primroses,  the  Island  ought  to  be  called  Primrose 
Island,  that  is,  if  the  nation  of  Cowslips  agree  thereto, 
of  which  there  are  divers  clans  just  beginning  to  lift  up 
their  heads.  Another  reason  of  my  fixing  is,  that  I  am 
more  in  reach  of  the  places  around  me.  I  intend  to  walk 
over  the  Island,  east,  west,  north,  south.  I  have  not  seen 
many  specimens  of  ruins.  I  don't  think,  however,  I  shall 
ever  see  one  to  surpass  Carisbrooke  Castle.  The  trench 
is  overgrown  with  the  smoothest  turf,  and  the  walls  with 
ivy.  The  Keep  within  side  is  one  bower  of  ivy;  a  colony 
of  jackdaws  have  been  there  for  many  years.  I  daresay 
I  have  seen  many  a  descendant  of  some  old  cawer  who 
peeped  through  the  bars  at  Charles  the  First,  when  he 
was  there  in  confinement.  On  the  road  from  Cowes  to 
Newport  I  savi  some  extensive  Barracks,  which  disgusted 
me  extremely  with  the  Government  for  placing  such  a 
nest  of  debauchery  in  so  beautiful  a  place.  I  asked  a  man 
on  the  coach  about  this,  and  he  said  that  the  people  had 
been  spoiled.  In  the  room  where  I  slept  at  Newport,  I 
found  this  on  the  window — "O  Isle  spoilt  by  the  mili- 
tary!" 

The  wind  is  in  a  sulky  fit,  and  I  feel  that  it  would  be 


Mi.  21]  JOHN    KEATS  185 

no  bad  thing  to  be  the  favourite  of  some  Fairy,  who 
would  give  one  the  power  of  seeing  how  our  friends  got 
on  at  a  distance.  I  should  like,  of  all  loves,  a  sketch  of 
you,  and  Tom,  and  George  in  ink:  which  Haydon  will 
do  if  you  tell  him  how  I  want  them.  From  want  of  regu- 
lar rest  I  have  been  rather  narvus,  and  the  passage  in 
Lear,  "Do  you  not  hear  the  sea!"  has  haunted  me  in- 
tensely. 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 

Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty  swell 

Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till  the  spell 

Of  Hecate  leaves  them  their  old  shadowy  sound. 

Often  'tis  in  such  gentle  temper  found, 

That  scarcely  will  the  very  smallest  shell 

Be  moved  for  days  from  whence  it  sometime  fell, 

When  last  the  winds  of  heaven  were  unbound. 

Oh  ye!  who  have  your  eye-balls  vexed  and  tired, 

Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  Sea; 

Oh  ye!  whose  ears  are  dinn'd  with  uproar  rude, 

Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody, — 

Sit  ye  near  some  old  cavern's  mouth,  and  brood 

Until  ye  start,  as  if  the  sea-nymphs  quired! 

I'll  tell  you  what — on  the  23rd  was  Shakespeare  born. 
Now  if  I  should  receive  a  letter  from  you,  and  another 
from  my  brother  on  that  day,  'twould  be  a  parlous  good 
thing.  Whenever  you  write,  say  a  word  or  two  on  some 
passage  in  Shakespeare  that  may  have  come  rather  new 
to  you,  which  must  be  continually  happening,  notwith- 
standing that  we  read  the  same  play  forty  times — for  in- 
stance, the  following  from  the  "Tempest"  never  struck 
me  so  forcibly  as  at  present: — 

"Urchins 

Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  that  they  may  work, 
All  exercise  on  thee." 

How  can  I  help  bringing  to  your  mind  the  line — 
"In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time." 

I  find  that  I  cannot  exist  without  Poetry — without  eter- 
nal Poetry;  I  began  with  a  little,  but  habit  has  made  me 


186  JOHN   KEATS  &t.  21 


a  leviathan.  I  had  become  all  in  a  tremble  from  not 
having  written  anything  of  late:  the  Sonnet  over-leaf  did 
me  good;  I  slept  the  better  last  night  for  it;  this  morn- 
ing, however,  I  am  nearly  as  bad  again.  Just  now  I 
opened  Spenser,  and  the  first  lines  I  saw  were  these:  — 

"The  noble  heart  that  harbours  virtuous  thought, 
And  is  with  child  of  glorious  great  intent, 
Can  never  rest  until  it  forth  have  brought 
Th'  eternal  brood  of  glory  excellent." 

Let  me  know  particularly  about  Haydon;  ask  him  to 
write  to  me  about  Hunt,  if  it  be  only  ten  lines.  I  hope 
all  is  well.  I  shall  forthwith  begin  my  "Endymion," 
which  I  hope  I  shall  have  got  some  way  into  by  the  time 
you  come,  when  we  will  read  our  verses  in  a  delightful 
place  I  have  set  my  heart  upon,  near  the  Castle.  Give 
my  love  to  your  sisters  severally. 

Your  sincere  friend, 

JOHN  KEATS 

[JEt.  21] 

To  JOHN  TAYLOR* 
["THAT  HYDRA,  THE  DUN"] 

MARGATE,  May  16th,  1817. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  am  extremely  indebted  to  you  for  your  liberality  in 
the  shape  of  manufactured  rag,  value  20  1.,  and  shall  im- 
mediately proceed  to  destroy  some  of  the  minor  heads  of 
that  Hydra  the  Dun;  to  conquer  which  the  knight  need 
have  no  sword,  shield,  cuirass,  cuisses,  herbadgeon,  spear, 
casque,  greaves,  paldrons,  spurs,  chevron,  or  any  other 
scaly  commodity,  but  he  need  only  take  the  Bank-note 
of  Faith  and  Cash  of  Salvation,  and  set  out  against  the 
monster,  invoking  the  aid  of  no  Archimago  or  Urganda, 
but  finger  me  the  paper,  light  •  as  the  Sybil's  leaves  in 
Virgil,  whereat  the  fiend  skulks  off  with  his  tail  between 
his  legs.  Touch  him  with  this  enchanted  paper,  and  he 
whips  you  his  head  away  as  fast  as  a  snail's  horn;  but 
then  the  horrid  propensity  he  has  to  put  it  up  again  has 

*  Of  the  publishing  firm  Taylor  and  Hessey. 


JEt.  22]  JOHN   KEATS  187 

discouraged  many  very  valiant  knights.  He  is  such  a 
never-ending,  still-beginning,  sort  of  a  body,  like  my 
landlady  of  the  Bell.  I  think  I  could  make  a  nice  little 
allegorical  poem,  called  "The  Dun,"  where  we  would 
have  the  Castle  of  Carelessness,  the  Drawbridge  of  Credit, 
Sir  Novelty  Fashion's  expedition  against  the  City  of 
Tailors,  &c.,  &c.  I  went  day  by  day  at  my  poem  for  a 
month;  at  the  end  of  which  time,  the  other  day,  I  found 
my  brain  so  overwrought,  that  I  had  neither  rhyme  nor 
reason  in  it,  so  was  obliged  to  give  up  for  a  few  days.  I 
hope  soon  to  be  able  to  resume  my  work.  I  have  endeav- 
oured to  do  so  once  or  twice;  but  to  no  purpose.  Instead 
of  poetry,  I  have  a  swimming  in  my  head,  and  feel  all 
the  effects  of  a  mental  debauch,  lowness  of  spirits,  anxiety 
to  go  on,  without  the  power  to  do  so,  which  does  not  at 
all  tend  to  my  ultimate  progression.  However,  to-morrow 
I  will  begin  my  next  month.  This  evening  I  go  to  Can- 
terbury, having  got  tired  of  Margate;  I  was  not  right  in 
my  head  when  I  came.  At  Canterbury  I  hope  the  re- 
membrance of  Chaucer  will  set  me  forward  like  a  billiard 
ball.  I  have  some  idea  of  seeing  the  Continent  some 
time  this  summer. 

In  repeating  how  sensible  I  am  of  your  kindness,  I 
remain, 

Your  obedient  servant   and  friend, 

JOHN  KEATS. 
[^Et.  22] 

To  J.  H.  REYNOLDS 
[CRITICISM  OF  WORDSWORTH] 

HAMPSTEAD,  Feb.  3,  1818. 
My  dear  Reynolds, 

I  thank  you  for  your  dish  of  filberts.  Would  I  could 
get  a  basket  of  them  by  way  of  dessert  every  day  for  the 
sum  of  twopence  (two  sonnets  on  Robin  Hood  sent  by 
the  twopenny  post).  Would  we  were  a  sort  of  ethereal 
pigs,  and  turned  loose  to  feed  upon  spiritual  mast  and 
acorns!  which  would  be  merely  being  a  squirrel  and  feed- 
ing upon  filberts;  for  what  is  a  squirrel  but  an  airy  pig, 
or  a  filbert  but  a  sort  of  archangelical  acorn?  About  the 
nuts  being  worth  cracking,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  where 
there  are  a  throng  of  delightful  images  ready  drawn, 


188  JOHN   KEATS  [^Et.  22 

simplicity  is  the  only  thing.  It  may  be  said  that  we 
ought  to  read  our  contemporaries,  that  Wordsworth,  &c., 
should  have  their  due  from  us.  But,  for  the  sake  of  a 
few  fine  imaginative  or  domestic  passages,  are  we  to  be 
bullied  into  a  certain  philosophy  engendered  in  the  whims 
of  an  egotist?  Every  man  has  his  speculations,  but  every 
man  does  not  brood  and  peacock  over  them  till  he  makes 
a  false  coinage  and  deceives  himself.  Many  a  man  can 
travel  to  the  very  6ourne  of  Heaven,  and  yet  want  con- 
fidence to  put  down  his  half -seeing.  Sancho  will  invent 
a  journey  heavenward  as  well  as  anybody.  We  hate  po- 
etry that  has  a  palpable  design  upon  us,  and,  if  we  do 
not  agree,  seems  to  put  its  hand  into  its  breeches  pocket. 
Poetry  should  be  great  and  unobtrusive,  a  thing  which 
enters  into  one's  soul,  and  does  not  startle  it  or  amaze 
it  with  itself,  but  with  its  subject.  How  beautiful  are 
the  retired  flowers!  How  would  they  lose  their  beauty 
were  they  to  throng  into  the  highway,  crying  out,  "Ad- 
mire me,  I  am  a  violet!  Dote  upon  me,  I  am  a  prim- 
rose!" Modern  poets  differ  from  the  Elizabethans  in 
this:  each  of  the  moderns,  like  an  Elector  of  Hanover, 
governs  his  petty  state,  and  knows  how  many  straws  are 
swept  daily  from  the  causeways  in  all  his  dominions,  and 
has  a  continual  itching  that  all  the  housewives  should 
have  their  coppers  well  scoured.  The  ancients  were  Em- 
perors of  vast  provinces;  they  had  only  heard  of  the  re- 
mote ones,  and  scarcely  cared  to  visit  them.  I  will  cut 
all  this.  I  will  have  no  more  of  Wordsworth  or  Hunt  in 
particular.  Why  should  we  be  of  the  tribe  of  Manasseh, 
when  we  can  wander  with  Esau?  Why  should  we  kick 
against  the  pricks,  when  we  can  walk  on  roses?  Why 
should  we  be  owls,  when  we  can  be  eagles?  Why  be 
teased  with  "nice-eyed  wagtails,"  when  we  have  in  sight 
"the  cherub  Contemplation?"  Why.  with  Wordsworth's 
"Matthew  with  a  bough  of  wilding  in  HTs  hand,"  when 
we  can  have  Jacques  "under  an  oak,"  &c.  ?  The  secret 
of  the  "bough  of  wilding"  will  run  through  your  head 
faster  than  I  can  write  it.  Old  Matthew  spoke  to  him 
some  years  ago  on  some  nothing,  and  because  he  happens 
in  an  evening  walk  to  imagine  the  figure  of  the  old  man, 
he  must  stamp  it  down  in  black  and  white,  and  it  is 
henceforth  sacred.  I  don't  mean  to  cleny  Wordsworth's 


Mi.  22]  JOHN   KEATS  189 

grandeur  and  Hunt's  merit,  but  I  mean  to  say  we  need 
not  be  teased  with  grandeur  and  merit  when  we  can  have 
them  uncontaminated  and  unobtrusive.  Let  us  have  the 
old  Poets  and  Robin  Hood.  Your  letter  and  its  sonnets 
gave  me  more  pleasure  than  will  the  Fourth  Book  of 
"Childe  Harold,"  and  the  whole  of  anybody's  life  and 
opinions. 

In  return  for  your  dish  of  filberts,  I  have  gathered  a 
few  catkins.  I  hope  they'll  look  pretty. 

I  hope  you  will  like  them — they  are  at  least  written  in 
the  spirit  of  outlawry.    Here  are  the  Mermaid  lines: — 
Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone.  &c. 

In  the  hope  that  these  scribblings  will  be  some  amuse- 
ment for  you  this  evening,  I  remain,  copying  on  the  hill, 
Your  sincere  friend  and  co-scribbler, 

JOHN  KEATS. 
[^Et.  22] 

To  MR.  TAYLOR 
[POETIC  AXIOMS;  "ENDYMION"] 

HAMPSTEAD,  27  Feb.,  [1818.] 
My  dear  Taylor, 

...  In  "Endymion,"  I  have  most  likely  but  moved 
into  the  go-cart  from  the  leading-strings.  In  poetry  I 
have  a  few  axioms,  and  you  will  see  how  far  I  am  from 
their  centre. 

1st.  I  think  poetry  should  surprise  by  a  fine  excess, 
and  not  by  singularity;  it  should  strike  the  reader  as  a 
wording  of  his  own  highest  thoughts,  and  appear  almost 
a  remembrance. 

2nd.  Its  touches  of  beauty  should  never  be  half-way, 
thereby  making  the  reader  breathless,  instead  of  content. 
The  rise,  the  progress,  the  setting  of  imagery,  should, 
like  the  sun,  come  natural  to  him,  shine  over  him,  and 
set  soberly,  although  in  magnificence,  leaving  him  in  the 
luxury  of  twilight.  But  it  is  easier  to  think  what  poetry 
should  be,  than  to  write  it.  And  this  leads  me  to 

Another  axiom — That  if  poetry  comes  not  as  naturally 
as  the  leaves  to  a  tree,  it  had  better  not  come  at  all.  How- 
ever it  may  be  with  me,  I  cannot  help  looking  into  new 
countries  with  "Oh,  for  a  muse  of  fire  to  ascend!"  If 
"Endymion"  serves  me  as  a  pioneer,  perhaps  I  ought  to 


190  JOHN   KEATS  [JEt.  22 

be  content,  for,  thank  God,  I  can  read,  and  perhaps  under- 
stand, Shakespeare  to  his  depths;  and  I  have,  I  am  sure, 
many  friends,  who,  if  I  fail,  will  attribute  any  change  in 
my  life  and  temper  to  humbleness  rather  than  pride— to 
a  cowering  under  the  wings  of  great  poets,  rather  than 
to  a  bitterness  that  I  am  not  appreciated.  I  am  anxious 
to  get  "Endymion"  printed  that  I  may  forget  it,  and 
proceed.  I  have  copied  the  Third  Book,  and  begun  the 
Fourth.  I  will  take  care  the  printer  shall  not  trip  up 
my  heels. 

Remember  me  to  Percy  Street. 

Your  sincere  and  obliged  friend, 
JOHN  KEATS. 

P.  8.     You  shall  have  a  short  preface  in  good  time. 

[^Et.  22] 

To  MR.  RICE 
[MILTON  AND  SALMASIUS] 

TEIGNMOUTH,  25  March,  1818. 
My  dear  Rice, 

Being  in  the  midst  of  your  favourite  Devon,  I  should 
not,  by  rights,  pen  one  word  but  it  should  contain  a  vast 
portion  of  wit,  wisdom,  and  learning;  for  I  have  heard 
that  Milton,  ere  he  wrote  his  answer  to  Salmasius,  came 
into  these  parts,  and  for  one  whole  month,  rolled  himself 
for  three  whole  hours  a  day,  in  a  certain  meadow  hard 
by  us,  where  the  mark  of  his  nose  at  equidistances  is  still 
shown.  The  exhibitor  of  said  meadow  further  saith,  that, 
after  these  rollings,  not  a  nettle  sprang  up  in  all  the 
seven  acres  for  seven  years,  and  that  from  said  time  a 
new  sort  of  plant  was  made  from  the  whitethorn,  of  a 
thornless  nature,  very  much  used  by  the  bucks  of  the 
present  day  to  rap  their  boots  withal.  This  account 
made  me  very  naturally  suppose  that  the  nettles  and 
thorns  etherealised  by  the  scholar's  rotatory  motion,  and 
garnered  in  his  head,  thence  flew,  after  a  dew  of  fermen- 
tation, against  the  luckless  Salmasius,  and  occasioned  his 
well-known  and  unhappy  end.  What  a  happy  thing  it 
would  be  if  we  could  settle  our  thoughts  and  make  our 
minds  up  on  any  matter  in  five  minutes,  and  remain 


At.  22]  JOHN   KEATS  191 

content,  that  is,  build  a  sort  of  mental  cottage  of  feel- 
ings, quiet  and  pleasant — to  have  a  sort  of'  philosophical 
back-garden,  and  cheerful  holiday  -  keeping  front  one. 
But,  alas !  this  never  can  be ;  for,  as  the  material  cottager 
knows  there  are  such  places  as  France  and  Italy,  and  the 
Andes,  and  burning  mountains,  so  the  spiritual  cottager 
has  knowledge  of  the  terra  semi-incognita  of  things  un- 
earthly, and  cannot,  for  his  life,  keep  in  the  check-rein — 
or  I  should  stop  here,  quiet  and  comfortable  in  my  theory 
of  nettles.  You  will  see,  however,  I  am  obliged  to  run 
wild,  being  attracted  by  the  load-stone,  concatenation. 
No  sooner  had  I  settled  the  knotty  point  of  Salmasius, 
than  the  devil  put  this  whim  into  my  head  in  the  like- 
ness of  one  of  Pythagoras's  questionings — Did  Milton  do 
more  good  or  harm  in  the  world?  He  wrote,  let  me  in- 
form you  (for  I  have  it  from  a  friend  who  had  it  of ,) 

he  wrote  "Lycidas,"  "Comus,"  "Paradise  Lost,"  and  other 
Poems,  with  much  delectable  prose;  he  was  moreover  an 
active  friend  to  man  all  his  life,  and  has  been  since  his 
death.  Very  good.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  I  must  let  you 
know  that,  as  there  is  ever  the  same  quantity  of  matter 
constituting  this  habitable  globe,  as  the  ocean,  notwith- 
standing the  enormous  changes  and  revolutions  taking 
place  in  some  or  other  of  its  demesnes,  notwithstanding 
waterspouts,  whirlpools,  and  mighty  rivers  emptying 
themselves  into  it,  it  still  is  made  up  of  the  same  bulk, 
nor  ever  varies  the  number  of  its  atoms;  and,  as  a  cer- 
tain bulk  of  water 'was  instituted  at  the  creation,  so,  very 
likely,  a  certain  portion  of  intellect  was  spun  forth  into 
the  thin  air,  for  the  brains  of  man  to  prey  upon  it.  You 
will  see  my  drift,  without  any  unnecessary  parenthesis. 
That  which  is  contained  in  the  Pacific  could  not  lie  in 
the  hollow  of  the  Caspian;  that  which  was  in  Milton's 
head  could  not  find  room  in  Charles  the  Second's.  He, 
like  a  moon,  attracted  intellect  to  its  flow — it  has  not  ebbed 
yet,  but  has  left  the  shore-pebble  all  bare — I  mean  all 
bucks,  authors  of  Hengist,  and  Castlereaghs  of  the  present 
day,  who,  without  Milton's  gormandising,  might  have  been 
all  wise  men.  Now  for  as  much  as  I  was  very  predis- 
posed to  a  country  I  had  heard  you  speak  so  highly  of,  I 
took  particular  notice  of  everything  during  my  journey, 
and  have  bought  some  nice  folio  asses'  skins  for  memo- 


192  JOHN   KEATS  [^Et.  22 

randums.  I  have  seen  everything  but  the  wind — and 
that,  they  say,  becomes  visible  by  taking  a  dose  of  acorns, 
or  sleeping  one  night  in  a  hog-trough,  with  your  tail  to 
the  sow-sow-west. 

I  went  yesterday  to  Dawlish  fair. 

"Over  the  Hill  and  over  the  Dale, 
And  over  the  Bourne  to  Dawlish, 
Where  ginger-bread  wives  have  a  scanty  sale, 
And  ginger-bread  nuts  are  smallish,"  &c.  &c. 

Your  sincere  friend, 

JOHN  KEATS. 
[^Et.  22] 

To  MR.  TAYLOR 
["GET  LEARNING — GET  UNDERSTANDING"] 

TEIGNMOUTH,  27  April,  1818. 
My  dear  Taylor, 

I  think  I  did  wrong  to  leave  to  you  all  the  trouble  of 
"Endymion."  But  I  could  not  help  it  then — another 
time  I  shall  be  more  bent  to  all  sorts  of  troubles  and 
disagreeables.  Young  men,  for  some  time,  have  an  idea 
that  such  a  thing  as  happiness  is  to  be  had,  and  therefore 
are  extremely  impatient  under  any  unpleasant  restrain- 
ing. In  time,  however, — of  such  stuff  is  the  world  about 
them, — they  know  better,  and  instead  of  striving  from 
uneasiness,  greet  it  as  an  habitual  sensation,  a  pannier 
which  is  to  weigh  upon  them  through  life.  And  in  pro- 
portion to  my  disgust  at  the  task  is  my  sense  of  your 
kindness-  and  anxiety.  The  book  pleased  me  much.  It 
is  very  free  from  faults;  and,  although  there  are  one  or 
two  words  that  I  should  wish  replaced,  I  see  in  many 
places  an  improvement  greatly  to  the  purpose. 

I  was  proposing  to  travel  over  the  North  this  summer. 
There  is  but  one  thing  to  prevent  me.  I  know  nothing 
— I  have  read  nothing — and  I  mean  to  follow  Solomon's 
directions,  "Get  learning — get  understanding."  I  find 
earlier  days  are  gone  by — I  find  that  I  can  have  no  en- 
joyment in  the  world  but  continual  drinking  of  knowl- 
edge. I  find  there  is  no  worthy  pursuit  but  the  idea  of 
doing  some  good  to  the  world.  Some  do  it  with  their 
society;  some  with  their  wit;  some  with  their  benevo- 


Mt.  22]  JOHN   KEATS  193 

lence;  some  with  a  sort  of  power  of  conferring  pleasure 

and  good  humour  on  all  they  meet — and  in  a  thousand 

ways,  all  dutiful  to  the  command  of  great  nature.    There 

is  but  one  way  for  me.     The  road  lies  through  applica- 

!  tion,  study,  and  thought.     I  will  pursue  it;  and,  for  that 

i  end,  purpose  retiring  for  some  years.    I  have  been  hover- 

i  ing  for  some  time  between  an  exquisite  sense  of  the  lux- 

!  urious,  and  a  love  for  philosophy:  were  I  calculated  for 

j  the  former  I  should  be  glad.     But  as  I  am  not,  I  shall 

turn  all  my  soul  to  the  latter. 

My  brother  Tom  is  getting  better,  and  I  hope  I  shall 
see  both  him  and  Reynolds  better  before  I  retire  from 
the  world.  I  shall  see  you  soon,  and  have  some  talk  about 
what  books  I  shall  take  with  me. 

Your  very  sincere  friend, 
JOHN  KEATS. 

{[^t.  22] 

To  J.  H.  REYNOLDS 

[ON    VISITING    BURNS'S    BIRTHPLACE] 

MAYBOLE,  July  11  [1818]. 
My  dear  Reynolds, — 

I'll  not  run  over  the  ground  we  have  passed ;  that  would 
be  nearly  as  bad  as  telling  a  dream — unless,  perhaps,  I 
do  it  in  the  manner  of  the  Laputan  printing  press;  that 
is,  I  put  down  mountains,  rivers,  lakes,  dells,  glens,  rocks, 
and  clouds  with  beautiful,  enchanting,  gothic,  pictur- 
esque,—  fine,  delightful,  enchanting,  grand,  sublime  —  a 
few  blisters,  &c. — and  now  you  have  our  journey  thus 
far;  where  I  begin  a  letter  to  you  because  I  am  approach- 
ing Burns's  cottage  very  fast.  We  have  made  continual 
inquiries  from  the  time  we  left  his  tomb  at  Dumfries. 
His  name,  of  course,  is  known  all  about:  his  great  repu- 
tation among  the  plodding  people  is,  "that  he  wrote  a 
good  mony  sensible  things."  One  of  the  pleasantest  ways 
of  annulling  self  is  approaching  such  a  shrine  as  the  cot- 
tage of  Burns:  we  need  not  think  of  his  misery — that  is 
all  gone,  bad  luck  to  it!  I  shall  look  upon  it  hereafter 
with  unmixed  pleasure,  as  I  do  upon  my  Stratford-on- 
Avon  day  with  Bailey.  I  shall  fill  this  sheet  for  you  in 
the  Bardie's  country,  going  no  farther  than  this,  till  I 


194  JOHN    KEATS  [^Et.  22 

get  to  the  town  of  Ayr,  which  will  be  a  nine  miles'  walk 
to  tea. 

We  were  talking  on  different  and  indifferent  things, 
when,  on  a  sudden,  we  turned  a  corner  upon  the  immedi- 
ate country  of  Ayr.  The  sight  was  as  rich  as  possible.  I 
had  no  conception  that  the  native  place  of  Burns  was  so 
beautiful;  the  idea  I  had  was  more  desolate:  his  Rigs  of 
Barley  seemed  always  to  me  but  a  few  strips  of  green  on 
a  cold  hill — Oh,  prejudice ! — It  was  as  rich  as  Devon.  I 
endeavored  to  drink  in  the  prospect,  that  I  might  spin 
it  out  to  you,  as  the  silk-worm  makes  silk  from  the  mul- 
berry leaves.  I  cannot  recollect  it.  Besides  all  the  beauty, 
there  were  the  mountains  of  Annan  Isle,  black  and  huge 
over  the  sea.  We  came  down  upon  everything  suddenly; 
there  were  in  our  way  the  "bonny  Doon,"  with  the  brig 
that  Tarn  o'Shanter  crossed,  Kirk  Alloway,  Burns's  Cot- 
tage, and  then  the  Brigs  of  Ayr.  First  we  stood  upon 
the  Bridge  across  the  Doon,  surrounded  by  every  phan- 
tasy of  green  in  tree,  meadow,  and  hill;  the  stream  of 
the  Doon,  as  a  farmer  told  us,  is  covered  with  trees  "from 
head  to  foot."  You  know  those  beautiful  heaths,  so  fresh 
against  the  weather  of  a  summer's  evening;  there  was 
one  stretching  along  behind  the  trees. 

I  wish  I  knew  always  the  humour  my  friends  would  be 
in  at  opening  a  letter  of  mine,  to  suit  it  to  them  as  nearly 
as  possible.  I  could  always  find  an  egg-shell  for  melan- 
choly, and,  as  for  merriment,  a  witty  humour  will  tnrn 
anything  to  account.  My  head  is  sometimes  in  such  a 
whirl  in  considering  the  million  likings  and  antipathies 
of  our  moments,  that  I  can  get  into  no  settled  strain  in 
my  letters.  My  wig !  Burns  and  sentimentality  coming 
across  you  and  Frank  Floodgate  in  the  office.  Oh, 
Scenery,  that  thou  shouldst  be  crushed  between  two  puns ! 
As  for  them,  I  venture  the  rascalliest  in  the  Scotch  region. 
I  hope  Brown  does  not  put  them  in  his  journal;  if  he 
does,  I  must  sit  on  the  cutty-stool  all  next  winter.  We 
went  to  Kirk  Alloway.  "A  prophet  is  no  prophet  in  his 
own  country."  We  went  to  the  Cottage  and  took  some 
whisky.  I  wrote  a  sonnet  for  the  mere  sake  of  writing 
some  lines  under  the  roof;  they  are  so  bad  I  cannot  trans- 
cribe them.  The  man  at  the  Cottage  was  a  great  bore 
with  his  anecdotes.  I  hate  the  rascal.  His  life  consists 


•Jit.  22]  JOHN    KEATS  195 

in  fuzzy,  fuzzy,  fuzziest.  He  drinks  glasses  five  for  the 
quarter  and  twelve  for  the  hour ;  he  is  a  mahogany-faced 
old  jackass  who  knew  Burns :  he  ought  to  have  been  kicked 
:  for  having  spoken  to  him.  He  calls  himself  "a  curious 
i  old  bitch,"  but  he  is  a  flat  old  dog.  I  should  like  to  em- 
!  ploy  Caliph  Vathek  to  kick  him.  Oh,  the  flummery  of  a 
1  birthplace!  Cant!  Cant!  Cant!  It  is  enough  to  give 
a  spirit  the  guts-ache !  Many  a  true  word,  they  say,  is 
spoken  in  jest — this  may  be  because  his  gab  hindered  my 
sublimity :  the  flat  dog  made  me  write  a  flat  sonnet.  My 
dear  Eeynolds,  I  cannot  write  about  scenery  and  visit- 
ings.  Fancy  is  indeed  less  than  present  palpable  reality, 
but  it  is  greater  than  remembrance.  You  would  lift  your 
eyes  from  Homer  only  to  see  close  before  you  the  real 
Isle  of  Tenedos.  You  would  rather  read  Homer  after- 
wards than  remember  yourself.  One  song  of  Burns's  is 
of  more  worth  to  you  than  all  I  could  think  for  a  whole 
year  in  his  native  country.  His  misery  is  a  dead  weight 
upon  the  nimbleness  of  one's  quill;  I  tried  to  forget  it — 
to  drink  toddy  without  any  care — to  write  a  merry  sonnet 
— it  won't  do — he  talked  with  bitches,  he  drank  with 
blackguards,  he  was  miserable.  We  can  see  horribly  clear, 
in  the  wojks  of  such  a  man,  his  whole  life,  as  if  we  were 
God's  spies.  What  were  his  addresses  to  Jean  in  the 
after  part  of  his  life?  I  should  not  speak  so  to  you. — 
Yet,  why  not  ?  You  are  not  in  the  same  case — you  are 
in  the  right  path — and  you  shall  not  be  deceived.  I  have 
spoken  to  you  against  marriage,  but  it  was  general.  The 
prospect  in  those  matters  has  been  to  me  so  blank,  that 
I  have  been  not  unwilling  to  die.  I  would  not  now,  for  I 
have  inducements  to  life — I  must  see  my  little  nephews 
in  America,  and  I  must  see  you  marry  your  lovely  wife. 
My  sensations  are  sometimes  deadened  for  weeks  together 
— but,  believe  me,  I  have  more  than  once  yearned  for 
the  time  of  your  happiness  to  come,  as  much  as  I  could 
for  myself  after  fhe  lips  of  Juliet.  From  the  tenor  of 
my  occasional  rhodomontade  in  chit-chat,  you  might  have 
been  deceived  concerning  me  in  these  points.  Upon  my 
soul,  I  have  been  getting  more  and  more  close  to  you 
every  day,  ever  since  I  knew  you,  and  now  one  of  the 
first  pleasures  I  look  to  is  your  happy  marriage — the  more, 
since  I  have  felt  the  pleasure  of  loving  a  sister-in-law. 


196  JOHN    KEATS  [Mt.  22 

I  did  not  think  it  possible  to  become  so  much  attached 
in  so  short  a  time.  Things  like  these,  and  they  are  real 
have  made  me  resolve  to  have  a  care  of  my  health — you 
must  be  as  careful.  .  .  . 

Tell  my  friends  I  do  all  I  can  for  them,  that  is,  drink 
their  health  in  Toddy.  Perhaps  I  may  have  some  lines 
by-and-by,  to  send  you  fresh,  on  your  own  letter. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

JOHN  KEATS. 
[>Et.  22] 

To  BENJAMIN  BAILEY 
[THE  SOCIETY  OF  WOMEN] 

INVERARY,  July  18   [1818]. 
My  dear  Bailey, — 

The  only  day  I  have  had  the  chance  of  seeing  you  when 
you  were  last  in  London,  I  took  every  advantage  of, 
some  devil  led  you  out  of  the  way.  Now  I  have  written 
to  Reynolds  to  tell  me  where  you  will  be  in  Cumberland 
— so  that  I  cannot  miss  you.  .  .  .  And  here,  Bailey,  I 
will  say  a  few  words,  written  in  a  sane  and  sober  mind 
(a  very  scarce  thing  with  me),  for  they  may,  hereafter, 
save  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble  about  me,  which  you  do 
not  deserve,  and  for  which  I  ought  to  be  bastinadoed.  I 
carry  all  matters  to  an  extreme;  so  that  when  I  have  any 
little  vexation,  it  grows,  in  five  minutes,  into  a  theme  for 
Sophocles.  Then,  and  in  that  temper,  if  I  write  to  a 
friend,  I  have  so  little  self-possession,  that  I  give  hin 
matter  for  grieving,  at  the  very  time,  perhaps,  when  I  an 
laughing  at  a  pun.  Your  last  letter  made  me  blush  fo 
the  pain  I  had  given  you.  I  know  my  own  dispositior 
so  well  that  I  am  certain  of  writing  many  times  here 
after  in  the  same  strain  to  you:  now,  you  know  how  fai 
to  believe  in  them.  You  must  allow  for  Imagination, 
know  I  shall  not  be  able  to  help  it. 

I  am  sorry  you  are  grieved  at  my  not  continuing  n 
visits  to  Little  Britain.  Yet  I  think  I  have,  as  far  as 
man  can  do  who  has  books  to  read  and  subjects  to  thint 
upon.  For  that  reason  I  have  been  nowhere  else  excep 
to  Wentworth  Place,  so  nigh  at  hand.  Moreover,  I  hav( 
been  too  often  in  a  state  of  health  that  made  it  pruden 
not  to  hazard  the  night  air.  Yet,  further,  I  will  confess 


22]  JOHN   KEATS  197 

to  you  that  I  cannot  enjoy  society,  small  or  numerous. 
I  am  certain  that  our  Fair  friends  are  glad  I  should  come 
for  the  mere  sake  of  my  coming;  but  I  am  certain  I  bring 
with  me  a  vexation  they  are  better  without.  If  I  can 
possibly,  at  any  time,  feel  my  temper  coming  upon  me, 
I  refrain  even  from  a  promised  visit.  I  am  certain  I  have 
not  a  right  feeling  towards  women — at  this  moment  I  am 
striving  to  be  just  to  them,  but  I  cannot.  Is  it  because 
they  fall  so  far  beneath  my  boyish  imagination?  When 
I  was  a  schoolboy  I  thought  a  fair  woman  a  pure  goddess; 
my  mind  was  a  soft  nest  in  which  some  one  of  them  slept, 
though  she  knew  it  not.  I  have  no  right  to  expect  more 
than  their  reality.  I  thought  them  ethereal,  above  men. 
I  find  them  perhaps  equal — great  by  comparison  is  very 
small.  Insult  may  be  inflicted  in  more  ways  than  by 
word  or  action.  One  who  is  tender  of  being  insulted  does 
not  like  to  think  an  insult  against  another.  I  do  not  like 
to  think  insult  in  a  lady's  company.  I  commit  a  crime 
with  her  which  absence  would  not  have  known.  Is  it  not 
extraordinary?  —  when  among  men,  I  have  no  evil 
thoughts,  no  malice,  no  spleen;  I  feel  free  to  speak  or 
to  be  silent;  I  can  listen,  and  from  everyone  I  can  learn; 
my  hands  are  in  my  pockets,  I  am  free  from  all  suspicion, 
and  comfortable.  When  I  am  among  women,  I  have 
evil  thoughts,  malice,  spleen ;  I  cannot  speak,  or  be  silent ; 
I  am  full  of  suspicions,  and  therefore  listen  to  nothing; 
I  am  in  a  hurry  to  be  gone.  You  must  be  charitable,  and 
put  all  this  perversity  to  my  being  disappointed  since 
my  boyhood.  Yet  with  such  feelings  I  am  happier  alone, 
among  crowds  of  men,  by  myself,  or  with  a  friend  or 
two.  With  all  this,  trust  me,  I  have  not  the  least  idea 
that  men  of  different  feelings  and  inclinations  are  more 
short-sighteoT  than  myself.  I  never  rejoiced  more  than 
at  my  brother's  marriage,  and  shall  do  so  at  that  of  any 
of  my  friends.  I  must  absolutely  get  over  this — but  how? 
the  only  way  is  to  find  the  root  of  the  evil,  and  so  cure  it, 
"with  backward  mutterings  of  dissevering  power."  That 
is  a  difficult  thing;  for  an  obstinate  prejudice  can  seldom 
be  produced  but  from  a  gordian  complication  of  feelings, 
which  must  take  time  to  unravel,  and  care  to  keep  un- 
ravelled. I  could  say  a  good  deal  about  this,  but  I  will 
leave  it,  in  the  hopes  of  better  and  more  worthy  disposi- 


198  JOHN    KEATS  [^Et.  22 

tions — and,  also,  content  that  I  am  wronging  no  one,  for, 
after  all,  I  do  think  better  of  womankind  than  to  sup- 
pose they  care  whether  Mister  John  Keats,  five  feet  high, 
likes  them  or  not.  You  appeared  to  wish  to  know  my 
moods  on  this  subject;  don't  think  it  a  bore,  my  dear 
fellow — it  shall  be  my  Amen. 

I  should  not  have  consented  to  myself,  these  four 
months,  tramping  in  the  Highlands,  but  that  I  thought 
it  would  give  me  more  experience,  rub  off  more  prejudice, 
use  [me]  to  more  hardship,  identify  finer  scenes,  load  me 
with  grander  mountains,  and  strengthen  more  my  reach 
in  poetry,  than  would  stopping  at  home  among  books, 
even  though  I  should  reach  Homer.  By  this  time  I  am 
comparatively  a  mountaineer;  I  have  been  among  wilds 
and  mountains  too  much  to  break  out  much  about  their 
grandeur.  I  have  fed  upon  oat-cake  not  long  enough  to 
he  very  much  attached  to  it.  The  first  mountains  I  saw, 
though  not  so  large  as  some  I  have  since  seen,  weighed 
very  solemnly  upon  me.  The  effect  is  wearing  away,  yet 
I  like  them  mainly.  We  have  come  this  evening  with 
a  guide — for  without  was  impossible — into  the  middle  of 
the  Isle  of  Mull,  pursuing  our  cheap  journey  to  lona, 
and  perhaps  Staff  a.  We  would  not  follow  the  common 
and  fashionable  mode,  from  the  great  imposition  of 
expense.  .  .  . 

You  say  I  must  study  Dante:  well,  the  only  books  I 
have  with  me  are  those  three  little  volumes.  I  read  that 
fine  passage  you  mention  a  few  days  ago.  Your  letter 
followed  me  from  Hampstead  to  Port  Patrick,  and  thence 
to  Glasgow.  You  must  think  me,  by  this  time,  a  very 
pretty  fellow.  .  .  .  Brown  keeps  on  writing  volumes  of 
adventure  to  Dilke.  When  we  get  in  of  an  evening,  and 
I  have  perhaps  taken  my  rest  on  a  couple  of  chairs,  he 
affronts  my  indolence  and  luxury,  by  pulling  out  of  his 
knapsack,  first,  his  paper ;  secondly,  his  pens ;  and  lastly, 
his  ink.  Now  I  would  not  care  if  he  would  change  a  little. 
I  say  now,  why  not,  Bailey,  take  out  his  pens  first  some- 
times. But  I  might  as  well  tell  a  hen  to  hold  up  her  head 
before  she  drinks,  instead  of  afterwards. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 
JOHN  KEATS. 


22]  JOHN   KEATS  199 

[^Et.  22]  To  MR.  HESSEY 

["A  SEVERE  CRITIC  ON  HIS  OWN  WORKS"] 

9th  Oct.,  1818 
My  dear  Hessey, 

You  are  very  good  in  sending  me  the  letter  from  the 
Chronicle,  and  I  am  very  bad  in  not  acknowledging  such 
a  kindness  sooner:  pray  forgive  me.  It  has  so  chanced 
that  I  have  had  that  paper  every  day.  I  have  seen  to- 
day's. I  cannot  but  feel  indebted  to  those  gentlemen  who 
have  taken  my  part.  As  for  the  rest,  I  begin  to  get  a 
little  acquainted  with  my  own  strength  and  weakness. 
Praise  or  blame  has  but  a  momentary  effect  on  the  man 
whose  love  of  beauty  in  the  abstract  makes  him  a  severe 
critic  on  his  own  works.  My  own  domestic  criticism 
has  given  me  pain  without  comparison  beyond  what 
"Blackwood"  or  the  "Quarterly"  could  possibly  inflict: 
and  also  when  I  feel  I  am  right,  no  external  praise  can 
give  me  such  a  glow  as  my  own  solitary  reperception  and 
ratification  of  what  is  fine.  J.  S.  is  perfectly  right  in 
regard  to  the  "slip-shod  Endymion."  That  it  is  so  is  no 
fault  of  mine.  No!  though  it  may  sound  a  little  para- 
doxical, it  is  as  good  as  I  had  power  to  make  it  by  my- 
self. Had  I  been  nervous  about  its  being  a  perfect  piece, 
and  with  that  view  asked  advice,  and  trembled  over  every 
page,  it  would  not  have  been  written ;  for  it  is  not  in 
my  nature  to  fumble.  I  will  write  independently.  I 
have  written  independently  without  judgment.  I  may 
write  independently,  and  with  judgment,  hereafter.  The 
Genius  of  Poetry  must  work  out  its  own  salvation  in  a 
man.  It  cannot  be  matured  by  law  and  precept,  but  by 
sensation  and  watchfulness  in  itself.  That  which  is  cre- 
ative must  create  itself.  In  "Endymion"  I  leaped  head- 
long into  the  sea,  and  thereby  have  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  soundings,  the  quicksands,  and  the 
rocks,  than  if  I  had  stayed  upon  the  green  shore,  and 
piped  a  silly  pipe,  and  took  tea  and  comfortable  advice. 
I  was  never  afraid  of  failure;  for  I  would  sooner  fail 
than  not  be  among  the  greatest.  But  I  am  nigh  getting 
into  a  rant;  so,  with  remembrances  to  Taylor  and  Wood- 
house,  &c.,  I  am,  Yours  very  sincerely, 

JOHN  KEATS. 


200  JOHN   KEATS  [>Et.  22 

.  22] 


To  MR.  WOODHOUSE     •  'v. 

["l  AM    AMBITIOUS   OF  DOING   THE    WORLD   SOME   GOOD"] 

[Postmark,  HAMPSTEAD,  17  Oct.,  1818.] 
My  dear  Woodhous 

Your  letter  gave  me  great  satisfaction,  more  on  account 
of  its  friendliness  than  any  relish  of  that  matter  in  it 
which  is  accounted  so  acceptable  in  the  "genus  irritabile." 
The  best  answer  I  can  give  you  is  in  a  clerklike  manner 
to  make  some  observations  on  two  principal  points  which 
seem  to  point  like  indices  into  the  midst  of  the  whole 
pro  and  con  about  genius,  and  views,  and  achievements, 
and  ambition,  et  ccetera.  1st.  As  to  the  poetical  charac- 
ter itself  (I  mean  that  sort,  of  which,  if  I  am  anything, 
I  am  a  member;  that  sort  distinguished  from  the  Words- 
worthian,  or  egotistical  sublime;  which  is  a  thing  per  se, 
and  stands  alone),  it  is  not  itself  —  it  has  no  self—  -it  is 
everything  and  nothing  —  it  has  no  character  —  it  enjoys 
light  and  shade  —  it  lives  in  gusto,  be  it  foul  or  fair,  high 
or  low,  rich  or  poor,  mean  or  elevated,  —  it  has  as  much 
delight  in  conceiving  an  lago  as  an  Imogen.  What 
shocks  the  virtuous  philosopher  delights  the  chameleon 
poet.  It  does  no  harm  from  its  relish  of  the  dark  side 
of  things,  any  more  than  from  its  taste  for  the  bright 
one,  because  they  both  end  in  speculation.  A  poet  is  the 
most  unpoetical  of  anything  in  existence,  because  he  has 
no  identity;  he  is  continually  in  for,  and  filling,  some 
other  body.  The  sun,  the  moon,  the  sea,  and  men  and 
women,  who  are  creatures  of  impulse,  are  poetical,  and 
have  about  them  an  unchangeable  attribute;  the  poet  has 
none,  no  identity.  He  is  certainly  the  most  unpoetical 
of  all  God's  creatures.  If,  then,  he  has  no  self,  and  if  I 
am  a  poet,  where  is  the  wonder  that  I  should  say  I  would 
write  no  more?  Might  I  not  at  that  very  instant  have 
been  cogitating  on  the  characters  of  Saturn  and  Ops?  It 
is  a  wretched  thing  to  confess,  but  it  is  a  very  fact,  that 
not  one  word  I  ever  utter  can  be  taken  for  granted  as  an 
opinion  growing  out  of  my  identical  nature.  How  can 
it,  when  I  have  no  nature?  When  I  am  in  a  room  with 
people,  if  I  ever  am  free  from  speculating  on  creations 
of  my  own  brain,  then,  not  myself  goes  home  to  myself, 


.Et.  22]  JOHN   KEATS  201 

but  the  identity  of  every  one  in  the  room  begins  to  press 
upon  me,  [so]  that  I  am  in  a  very  little  time  annihilated 
— not  only  among  men ;  it  would  be  the  same  in  a  nursery 
of  children.  I  know  not  whether  I  make  myself  wholly 
understood:  I  hope  enough  so  to  let  you  see  that  no  de- 
pendence is  to  be  placed  on  what  I  said  that  day. 

In  the  second  place,  I  will  speak  of  my  views,  and  of 
the  life  I  purpose  to  myself.  I  am  ambitious  of  doing 
the  world  some  good:  if  I  should  be  spared,  that  may  be 
the  work  of  maturer  years — in  the  interval  I  will  assay 
to  reach  to  as  high  a  summit  in  poetry  as  the  nerve  be- 
stowed upon  me  will  suffer.  The  faint  conceptions  I 
have  of  poems  to  come  bring  the  blood  frequently  into 
my  forehead.  All  I  hope  is,  that  I  may  not  lose  all  in- 
terest in  human  affairs — that  the  solitary  indifference  I 
feel  for  applause,  even  from  the  finest  spirits,  will  not 
blunt  any  acuteness  of  vision  I  may  have.  I  do  not  think 
it  will.  I  feel  assured  I  should  write  from  the  mere 
yearning  and  fondness  I  have  for  the  beautiful,  even  if 
my  night's  labours  should  be  burnt  every  morning,  and 
no  eye  ever  shine  upon  them.  But  even  now  I  am  per- 
haps not  speaking  from  myself,  but  from  some  character 
(in  whose  soul  I  now  live. 
I  am  sure,  however,  that  this  next  sentence  is  from  my- 
self. I  feel  your  anxiety,  good  opinion,  and  friendship, 
in  the  highest  degree,  and  am 

Yours  most  sincerely, 

JOHN  KEATS. 
[^Et.  22] 

To  GEORGE  KEATS 

["l  THINK  I  SHALL  BE  AMONG  THE  ENGLISH  POETS  AFTER  MY 
DEATH"] 

Oct.  29,  1818. 
My  dear  George, 

...  I  came  by  ship  from  Inverness,  and  was  nine 
days  at  sea  without  being  sick.  A  little  qualm  now  and 
then  put  me  in  mind  of  you;  however,  as  soon  as  you 
touch  the  shore  all  the  horrors  of  sickness  are  soon  for- 
gotten, as  was  the  case  with  a  lady  on  board,  who  could 
not  hold  her  head  up  all  the  way.  We  had  not  been  into 
the  Thames  an  hour  before  her  tongue  began  to  some 


202  JOHN   KEATS  [Mt.  22 

tune — paying  off,  as  it  was  fit  she  should,  all  old  scores. 
I  was  the  only  Englishman  on  board.  There  was  a  down- 
right Scotchman,  who,  hearing  that  there  had  been  a  bad 
crop  of  potatoes  in  England,  had  brought  some  triumph- 
ant specimens  from  Scotland.  These  he  exhibited  with 
natural  pride  to  all  the  ignorant  lightermen  and  water- 
men from  the  Nore  to  the  Bridge.  I  fed  upon  beef  all 
the  way,  not  being  able  to  ''eat  the  thick  porridge  which 
the  ladies  managed  to  manage,  with  large,  awkward,  horn- 
spoons  into  the  bargain.  Reynolds  has  returned  from  a 
six-weeks7  enjoyment  in  Devonshire;  he  is  well,  and  per- 
suades me  to  publish  my  "Pot  of  Basil,"  as  an  answer  to 
the  attack  made  on  me  in  "Blackwood's  Magazine"  and 
the  "Quarterly  Review."  There  have  been  two  letters  in 
my  defence  in  the  Chronicle,  and  one  in  the  Examiner, 
copied  from  the  Exeter  paper,  and  written  by  Reynolds. 
I  don't  know  who  wrote  those  in  the  Chronicle.  This  is 
a  mere  matter  of  the  moment:  I  think  I  shall  be  among 
the  English  Poets  after  my  death.  Even  as  a  matter  of 
present  interest,  the  attempt  to  crush  me  in  the  "Quar- 
terly" has  only  brought  me  more  into  notice,  and  it  is  a 
common  expression  among  book-men,  "I  wonder  the 
'Quarterly'  should  cut  its  own  throat."  It  does  me  not 
the  least  harm  in  society  to  make  me  appear  little  and 
ridiculous :  I  know  when  a  man  is  superior  to  me,  and 
give  him  all  due  respect;  he  will  be  the  last  to  laugh  at 
me;  and,  as  for  the  rest,  I  feel  that  I  make  an  impres- 
sion upon  them  which  ensures  me  personal  respect  while 
I  am  in  sight,  whatever  they  may  say  when  my  back  is 
turned. 

.  .  .  Tom  is  rather  more  easy  than  he  has  been,  but 
is  still  so  nervous  that  I  cannot  speak  to  him  of  you; — 
indeed  it  is  the  care  I  have  had  to  keep  his  mind  aloof 
from  feelings  too  acute,  that  has- made  this  letter  so  ram- 
bling. I  did  not  like  to  write  before  him  a  letter  he  knew 
was  to  reach  your  hands;  I  cannot  even  now  ask  him  for 
any  message;  his  heart  speaks  to  you. 

Be  as  happy  as  you  can,  and  believe  me,  dear  Brother 
and  Sister, 

Your  anxious  and  affectionate  Brother, 

JOHN. 

This  is  my  birth-day. 


Ml.  23]  JOHN   KEATS  203 

f^Et.  23] 

To  Miss  FANNY  BRAWNE 

["MY    UNEASY   SPIRITS — MY   UNGUESSED   FATE"] 

WINCHESTER,  August  17th  [1819]. 
My  dear  Girl, — 

What  shall  I  say  for  myself?  I  have  been  here  four 
days  and  not  yet  written  you — 'tis  true  I  have  had  many 
teasing  letters  of  business  to  dismiss — and  I  have  been 
in  the  claws,  like  a  serpent  in  an  Eagle's,  of  the  last  act 
of  our  Tragedy.  This  is  no  excuse;  I  know  it;  I  do  not 
presume  to  offer  it.  I  have  no  right  either  to  ask  a  speedy 
answer  to  let  me  know  how  lenient  you  are — I  must  re- 
main some  days  in  a  Mist — I  see  you  through  a  Mist :  as 
I  daresay  you  do  me  by  this  time.  Believe  in  the  first 
letters  I  wrote  you:  I  assure  you  I  felt  as  I  wrote — I 
could  not  write  so  now.  The  thousand  images  I  have  had 
pass  through  my  brain — my  uneasy  spirits — my  unguessed 
fate — all  spread  as  a  veil  between  me  and  you.  Remem- 
ber  I  have  had  no  idle  leisure  to  brood  over. you — 'tis  well 
perhaps  I  have  not.  I  could  not  have  endured  the  throng 
of  jealousies  that  used  to  haunt  me  before  I  l^ad  plunged 
so  deeply  into  imaginary  interests.  I  would  fain,  as  my 
sails  are  set,  sail  on  without  an  interruption  for  a  Brace 
of  Months  longer — I  am  in  complete  cue — in  the  fever; 
and  shall  in  these  four  Months  do  an  immense  deal.  This 
Page  as  my  eye  skims  over  it  I  see  is  excessively  unlover- 
like  and  ungallant — I  cannot  help  it — I  am  no  officer  in 
yawning  quarters;  no  Parson-Romeo.  My  Mind  is 
heap'd  to  the  full;  stuff 'd  like  a  cricket  ball — if  I  strive 
to  fill  it  more  it  would  burst.  I  know  the  generality  of 
women  would  hate  me  for  this;  that  I  should  have  so 
unsoften'd,  so  hard  a  Mind  as  to  forget  them;  forget  the 
brightest  realities  for  the  dull  imagination  of  my  own 
Brain.  But  I  conjure  you  to  give  it  a. fair  thinking;  and 
ask  yourself  whether  'tis  not  better  to  explain  my  feelings 
to  you,  than  write  artificial  Passion. — Besides,  you  would 
see  through  it.  It  would  be  vain  to  strive  to  deceive  you. 
'Tis  harsh,  harsh,  I  know  it.  My  heart  seems  now  made  of 
iron — I  could  not  write  a  proper  answer  to  an  invitation  to 
Idalia.  You  are  my  Judge :  my  forehead  is  on  the  ground. 
You  seem  offended  at  a  little  simple  innocent  childish  play- 


204  JOHN   KEATS  [^Et.  23 

fulness  in  my  last.  I  did  not  seriously  mean  to  say  that 
you  were  endeavouring  to  make  me  keep  my  promise.  I 
beg  your  pardon  for  it.  'Tis  but  just  your  Pride  should 
take  the  alarm — seriously.  You  say  I  may  do  as  I  please 
— I  do  not  think  with  any  conscience  I  can;  my  cash  re- 
sources are  for  the  present  stopp'd;  I  fear  for  some  time. 
I  spend  no  money,  but  it  increases  my  debts.  I  have  all 
my  life  thought  very  little  of  these  matters — they  seem 
not  to  belong  to  me.  It  may  be  a  proud  sentence;  but  by 
Heaven  I  am  as  entirely  above  all  matters  of  interest  as 
the  Sun  is  above  the  Earth — and  though  of  my  own  money 
I  should  be  careless,  of  my  Friends'  I  must  be  spare. 
You  see  how  I  go  on — like  so  many  strokes  of  a  hammer. 
I  cannot  help  it — I  am  impell'd,  driven  to  it.  I  am  not 
happy  enough  for  silken  Phrases,  and  silver  sentences.  I 
can  no  more  use  soothing  words  to  you  tha.n  if  I  were  at 
this  moment  engaged  in  a  charge  of  Cavalry.  Then  you 
will  say  I  should  not  write  at  all.  Should  I  not?  This 
Winchester  is  a  fine  place:  a  beautiful  Cathedral  and 
many  other  ancient  buildings  in  the  Environs.  The  little 
coffin  of  a  room  at  Shanklin  is  changed  for  a  large  room, 
where  I  can  promenade  at  my  pleasure — looks  out  onto  a 
beautiful — blank  side  of  a  house.  It  is  strange  I  should 
like  it  better  than  the  view  of  the  sea  from  our  window 
at  Shanklin.  I  began  to  hate  the  very  posts  there — the 
voice  of  the  old  Lady  over  the  way  was  getting  a  great 
Plague.  The  Eisherman's  face  never  altered  any  more 
than  our  black  teapot — the  knob  however  was  knock'd  off, 
to  my  little  relief.  I  am  getting  a  great  dislike  of  the 
picturesque;  and  can  only  relish  it  over  again  by  seeing 
you  enjoy  it.  One  of  the  pleasantest  things  I  have  seen 
lately  was  at  Cowes.  The  Regent  in  his  Yatch  (I  think 
they  spell  it)  was  anchored  opposite — a  beautiful  vessel — • 
and  all  the  Yatchs  and  boats  on  the  coast  were  passing 
and  repassing  it;  and  circuiting  and  tacking  about  it  in 
every  direction — I  never  beheld  anything  so  silent,  light, 
and  graceful. — As  we  pass'd  over  to  Southampton,  there 
was  nearly  an  accident.  There  came  by  a  Boat  well 
mann'd,  with  two  naval  officers  at  the  stern.  Our  Bow- 
lines took  the  top  of  their  little  mast  and  snapped  it  off 
close  by  the  board.  Had  the  mast  been  a  little  stouter 
they  would  have  been  upset.  In  so  trifling  an  event  I 


^Et.  23]  JOHN   KEATS  205 

could  not  help  admiring  our  seamen — neither  officer  nor 
man  in  the  whole  Boat  moved  a  muscle — they  scarcely 
notic'd  it  even  with  words.  Forgive  me  for  this  flint- 
worded  Letter,  and  believe  and  see  that  I  cannot  think 
of  you  without  some  sort  of  energy — though  mal  a  propos. 
Even  as  I  leave  off  it  seems  to  me  that  a  few  more  mo- 
ments' thought  of  you  would  uncrystallize  and  dissolve 
me.  I  must  not  give  way  to  it — but  turn  to  my  writing 
again — if  I  fail  I  shall  die  hard.  O  my  love,  your  lips 
are  growing  sweet  again  to  my  fancy — I  must  forget  them. 
Ever  your  affectionate 

KEATS. 

[Ml.  23] 

To  J.  H.  REYNOLDS 
["THE  TOP  THING  IN  THE  WORLD"] 

WINCHESTER, 
August  25,  [1819.] 
My  dear  Reynolds, 

By  this  post  I  write  to  Rice,  who  will  tell  you  why  we 
have  left  Shanklin,  and  how  we  like  this  place.  I  have 
indeed  scarcely  anything  else  to  say,  leading  so  monoto- 
nous a  life,  except  I  was  to  give  you  a  history  of  sensa- 
tions and  day-nightmares.  You  would  not  find  me  at 
all  unhappy  in  it,  as  all  my  thoughts  and  feelings,  which 
are  of  the  selfish  nature,  home  speculations,  every  day 
continue  to  make  me  more  iron.  I  am  convinced  more 
and  more,  day  by  day,  that  fine  writing  is,  next  to  fine 
doing,  the  top  thing  in  the  world;  the  "Paradise  Lost" 
becomes  a  greater  wonder.  The  more  I  know  what  my 
diligence  may  in  time  probably  effect,  the  more  does  my 
heart  distend  with  pride  and  obstinacy.  I  feel  it  in  my 
power  to  become  a  popular  writer.  I  feel  it  in  my  strength 
to  refuse  the  poisonous  suffrage  of  a  public.  My  own 
being,  which  I  know  to  be,  becomes  of  more  consequence 
to  me  than  the  crowds  of  shadows  in  the  shape  of  men 
and  women  that  inhabit  a  kingdom.  The  soul  is  a  world 
of  itself,  and  has  enough  to  do  in  its  own  home.  Those 
whom  I  know  already,  and  who  have  grown  as  it  were 
a  part  of  myself,  I  could  not  do  without;  but  for  the  rest 
of  mankind,  they  are  as  much  a  dream  to  me  as  Milton's 


206  JOHN    KEATS  [>Et.  23 

"Hierarchies."  I  think  if  I  had  a  free  and  healthy  and 
lasting  organisation  of  heart,  and  lungs  as  strong  as  an 
ox's,  so  as  to  be  able  to  bear  unhurt  the  shock  of  extreme 
thought  and  sensation  without  weariness,  I  could  pass  my 
life  very  nearly  alone,  though  it  should  last  eighty  years. 
But  I  feel  my  body  too  weak  to  support  me  to  the  height; 
I  am  obliged  continually  to  check  myself,  and  be  nothing. 
It  would  be  vain  for  me  to  endeavour  after  a  more  rea- 
sonable manner  of  writing  to  you.  I  have  nothing  to 
speak  of  but  myself,  and  what  can  I  say  but  what  I  feel? 
If  you  should  have  any  reason  to  regret  this  state  of  ex- 
citement in  me,  I  will  turn  the  tide  of  your  feelings  in 
the  right  channel,  by  mentioning  that  it  is  the  only  state 
for  the  best  sort  of  poetry — that  is  all  I  care  for,  all  I  live 
for.  Forgive  me  for  not  filling  up  the  whole  sheet ;  letters 
become  so  irksome  to  me,  that  the  next  time  I  leave  Lon- 
don I  shall  petition  them  all  to  be  spared  me.  To  give  me 
credit  for  constancy,  and  at  the  same  time  waive  letter 
writing,  will  be  the  highest  indulgence  I  can  think  of. 
Ever  your  affectionate  friend, 

JOHN  KEATS. 

|>Et.  23] 

To  J.  H.  EEYNOLDS 
["SEASON  OF  MISTS  AND  MELLOW  FRUITFULNESS"] 

WINCHESTER,, 
22nd  Sept.,  1819. 
My  dear  Reynolds, 

I  was  very  glad  to  hear  from  Woodhouse  that  you 
would  meet  in  the  country.  I  hope  you  will  pass  some 
pleasant  time  together;  which  I  wish  to  make  pleasanter 
by  a  brace  of  letters,  very  highly  to  be  estimated,  as 
really  I  have  had  very  bad  luck  with  this  sort  of  game 
this  season.  I  "kepen  in  solitarinesse,"  for  Brown  has 
gone  a-visiting.  I  am  surprised  myself  at  the  pleasure  I 
live  alone  in.  I  can  give  you  no  news  of  the  place  here, 
or  any  other  idea  of  it  but  what  I  have  to  this  effect 
written  to. George.  Yesterday,  I  say  to  him,  was  a  grand 
day  for  Winchester.  They  elected  a  mayor.  It  was  in- 
deed high  time  the  place  should  receive  some  sort  of  ex- 
citement. There  was  nothing  going  on — all  asleep — not 


Mt.  23]  JOHN    KEATS  207 

an  old  maid's  sedan  returning  from  a  card-party;  and  if 
any  old  women  got  tipsy  at  Christenings  they  did  not  ex- 
pose it  in  the  streets. 

The  side  streets  here  are  excessively  maiden-lady-like; 
the  door-steps  always  fresh  from  the  flannel.  The  knock- 
ers have  a  staid,  serious,  nay  almost  awful  quietness  about 
them.  I  never  saw  so  quiet  a  collection  of  lions'  and 
ranis'  heads.  The  doors  are  most  part  black,  with  a  little 
brass  handle  just  above  the  keyhole,  so  that  in  Winches- 
ter a  man  may  very  quietly  shut  himself  out  of  his  own 
house. 

How  beautiful  the  season  is  now.  How  fine  the  air — 
a  temperate  sharpness  about  it.  Really,  without  joking, 
chaste  weather — Dian  skies.  I  never  liked  stubble-fields 
so  much  as  now — aye,  better  than  the  chilly  green  of  the 
Spring.  Somehow,  a  stubble  plain  looks  warm,  in  the 
same  way  that  some  pictures  look  warm.  This  struck  me 
so  much  in  my  Sunday's  walk  that.  I  composed  upon  it. 

"Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness,"  &c. 

I  hope  you  are  better  employed  than  in  ^a;  in^  aitv. 
weather.  I  have  been,  at  different  times,  so  happy  as  not 
to  know  what  weather  it  was.  No,  I  will  not  copy  a  par- 
cel of  verses.  I  always  somehow  associate  Chatte.'ton 
with  Autumn.  He  is  the  purest  writer  in  the  English 
language.  He  has  no  French  idiom  or  particles,  like 
Chaucer;  'tis  genuine  English  idiom  in  English  words. 
I  have  given  up  "Hyperion" — there  were  too  many  Mil- 
tonic  inversions  in  it — Miltonic  verse  cannot  be  written 
but  in  an  artful,  or,  rather,  artist's  humour.  I  wish  to 
give  myself  up  to  other  sensations.  English  ought  to  be 
kept  up.  It  may  be  interesting  to  you  to  pick  out  some 
lines  from  "Hyperion,"  and  put  a  mark,  f,  to  the  false 
beauty,  proceeding  from  art,  and  one,  ||,  to  the  true  voice 
of  feeling.  Upon  my  soul,  'twas  imagination;  I  cannot 
make  the  distinction — every  now  and  then  there  is  a  Mil- 
tonic  intonation — but  I  cannot  make  the  division  prop- 
erly. .  .  . 

Ever  your  affectionate  friend, 
JOHN  KEATS. 


.  27]  THOMAS    CAELYLE 

1795-1881 
To  JANE  WELSH 
[A  VISIT  IN  PROSPECT] 
3,  MORAY  STREET,  [EoiN.]  17  April,  1823. 
My  dear  Jane, — 

I  have  not  been  so  glad  this  month  as  when  Dr.  Fyffe 
poked  in  his  little  farthing-face  yesterday,  with  such  a 
look  of  glad  intelligence:  I  knew  he  brought  me  tidings 
from  the  East.  The  Doctor  absolutely  seemed  to  me  one 
of  the  prettiest  dapper  little  gentlemen  I  had  ever  set 
eyes  on — the  Letter  was  so  large,  and  he  handed  it  in 
with  such  a  grace.  You  cannot  think  how  the  Devil  had 
been  tempting  me  about  you  for  the  four  preceding  days : 
I  imagined — But  now  we  have  no  time  for  that. 

It  is  but  half  an  instant  since  I  finished  this  wretched 
b^undle  of  papers,  at  the  sight  of  which  you  are  turned 
so  pall:  "they  will  yet  make  you  palter" — count  on  that. 
Yo  u  must  read  them  all  over  with  the  eye  not  of  a  friend, 
but  of  a  critic :  I  must  have  your  voice  and  decision  and 
advice  about  twenty  things  before  they  go  away.  Be- 
sidf,s  I  want  to  secure  at  least  three  readers — you,  my- 
self, and  the  Printer's  devil :  more  I  can  do  without.  The 
thing  is  absolutely  execrable:  I  have  written  as  if  I  had 
been  steeped  in  Lethe  to  the  chin.  "My  soul  is  black  as 
the  middle  of  the  night  Lady" — or  rather  gray  and  heavy 
as  the  middle  of  a  Liddesdale  mist.  But  never  mind : 
tear  the  ugly  thing  to  pieces,  and  give  me  your  severe 
and  solid  criticism  and  counsel,  when  you  arrive. 

So  you  are  to  be  here  on  Saturday.  Heaven  be  thanked 
for  it — I  shall  see  my  own  Jane  yet  after  all!  Do  con- 
trive some  reading  of  German  or  something  that  will 
bring  us  to  meet  together  daily, — do,  if  it  lies  within  the 
compass  of  your  utmost  ingenuity.  You  are  a  good  crea- 
ture and  full  of  wiles:  do  exert  them  for  me!  We  are 
not  to  leave  Town  till  about  the  20th  of  May  after  all ;  I 
am  still  free  between  one  o'clock  and  seven  every  day:  I 
expect  all  things  from  your  kindness  and  never-failing 
"devices." 

Here  is  an  ass  come  in  from  Glasgow  and  I  must  leave 
208 


Mi.  29]  THOMAS    CAKLYLE  209 

you.    May  the  Devil  comfort  him — in  his  own  good  time : 
I  had  still  half  an  hour  to  spend  with  you. 

You  will  let  me  know  the  first  convenient  moment  after 
you  arrive.  Write  to  me  at  any  rate,  if  you  cannot  see 
me  on  Saturday:  I  shall  be  very  fretful  else.  Adieu  my 
dearest  Jane!  God  bless  you  always! 

I  am  ever  yours, 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

Excuse  this  haste  and  nonsense:  I  have  not  been  so 
spurred  for  a  twelve-month.  There  is  no  hurry  in  nature 
with  the  Books. 

What  a  preux  chevalier  your  Teutscher*  was! 


[Mi.  29] 

To  ALEXANDER  CARLYLE 

["LIFE  OF  SCHILLER;"  LONDON  A  BABEL  AND  A  WEN] 
23  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET; 
PENTONVILLE,  14th  December,  1824. 
My  dear  AUck, — 

.  .  .  Your  letter  found  me  in  due  season;  and  a  wel- 
come visitant  it  was.  I  had  not  got  the  Courier  that  pre- 
ceded it,  and  the  intelligence  of  your  proceedings  and 
welfare  was  no  small  relief  to  me.  You  must  thank  our 
Mother  in  my  name  in  the  warmest  terms  for  her  kind 
note,  which  I  have  read  again  and  again  with  an  atten- 
tion rarely  given  to  more  polished  compositions.  The 
sight  of  her  rough  true-hearted  writing"  is  more  to  me 
than  the  finest  penmanship  and  the  choicest  rhetoric.  It 
takes  me  home  to  honest  kindness,  and  affection  that  will 
never  fail  me.  You  also  I  must  thank  for  your  graphic 
picture  of  Mainhill  and  its  neighbourhood.  How  many 
changes  happen  in  this  restless  roundabout  of  life  within 
a  little  space!  .  .  . 

In  London,  or  rather  in  my  own  small  sphere  of  it,  there 
has  nothing  sinister  occurred  since  I  wrote  last.  After 
abundant  scolding,  which  sometimes  rose  to  the  very  bor- 
ders of  bullying,  these  unhappy  people  [the  publishers]  are 
proceeding  pretty  regularly  with  the  Book;  a  fifth  part 

*  An  insistent  German  beggar  who  had  annoyed  Miss  Welsh. 


210  THOMAS    CAELYLE  [^Et.  29 

of  it  is  already  printed ;  they  are  also  getting  a  portrait 
of  Schiller  engraved  for  it ;  and  I  hope  in  about  six  weeks 
the  thing  will  be  off  my  hands.  It  will  make  a  reasonable- 
looking  book;  somewhat  larger  than  a  volume  of  Meister, 
and  done  in  somewhat  of  the  same  style.  In  the  course 
of  printing  I  have  various  matters  to  attend  to;  proofs 
to  read;  additions,  alterations  to  make;  which  furnishes 
me  with  a  very  canny  occupation  for  the  portion  of  the 
day  I  can  devote  to  labour.  I  work  some  three  or  four 
hours;  read,  for  amusement  chiefly,  about  as  long;  walk 
about  these  dingy  streets,  and  talk  with  originals  for  the 
rest  of  the  day.  On  the  whole  I  have  not  been  happier 
for  many  a  long  month:  I  feel  content  to  let  things  take 
'their  turn  till  I  am  free  of  my  engagements;  and  then — 
for  a  stern  and  serious  tuffle  with  my  Fate,  which  I  have 
vowed  and  determined  to  alter  from  the  very  bottom, 
health  and  all!  This  will  not  be  impossible,  or  even  I 
think  extremely  difficult.  Far  beyond  a  million  of  "weaker 
vessels"  than  I  are  sailing  very  comfortably  along  the  tide 
of  life  just  here.  What  good  is  it  to  whine  and  whimper  ? 
Let  every  man  that  has  an  ounce  of  strength  in  him  get 
up  and  put  it  forth  in  Heaven's  name,  and  labour  that 
his  "soul  may  live." 

Of  this  enormous  Babel  of  a  place  I  can  give  you  no 
account  in  writing:  it  is  like  the  heart  of  all  the  uni- 
verse; and  the  flood  of  human  effort  rolls  out  of  it  and 
into  it  with  a  violence  that  almost  appals  one's  very  sense. 
Paris  scarcely  occupies  a  quarter  of  the  ground,  and  does 
not  seem  to  have  the  twentieth  part  of  the  business.  O 
that  our  father  saw  Holborn  in  a  fog!-  with  the  black 
vapour  brooding  over  it,  absolutely  like  fluid  ink;  and 
coaches  and  wains  and  sheep  and  oxen  and  wild  people 
rushing  on  with  bellowings  and  shrieks  and  thundering 
din,  as  if  the  earth  in  general  were  gone  distracted.  To- 
day I  chanced  to  pass  through  Smithfield,  when  the  mar- 
ket was  three-fourths  over.  I  mounted  the  steps  of  a 
door,  and  looked  abroad  upon  the  area,  an  irregular  space 
of  perhaps  thirty  acres  in  extent,  encircled  with  old  dingy 
brick-built  houses,  and  intersected  with  wooden  pens  for 
the  cattle.  What  a  scene!  Innumerable  herds  of  fat 
oxen,  tied  in  long  rows,  or  passing  at  a  trot  to  their  sev- 
eral shambles;  and  thousands  of  graziers,  drovers,  butch- 


Mt.  29]  THOMAS    CARLYLE  211 

ers,  cattle-brokers  with  their  quilted  frocks  and  long  goads 
pushing  on  the  hapless  beasts;  hurrying  to  and  fro  in 
confused  parties,  shouting,  jostling,  cursing,  in  the  midst 
of  rain  and  shairn,  and  braying  discord  such  as  the  imagi- 
nation cannot  figure.  Then  there  are  stately  streets  and 
squares,  and  calm  green  recesses  to  which  nothing  of 
this  abomination  is  permitted  to  enter.  No  wonder  Cob- 
bett  calls  the  place  a  Wen.  It  is  a  monstrous  Wen !  The 
thick  smoke  of  it  beclouds  a  space  of  thirty  square  miles; 
and  a  million  of  vehicles,  from  the  dog  or  cuddy-barrow 
to  the  giant  waggon,  grind  along  its  streets  for  ever.  1 
saw  a  six-horse  wain  the  other  day  with,  I  think,  Number 
200,000  and  odds  upon  it ! 

There  is  an  excitement  in  all  this,  which  is  pleasant 
as  a  transitory  feeling,  but  much  against  my  taste  as  a 
permanent  one.  I  had  much  rather  visit  London  from 
time  to  time,  than  live  in  it.  There  is  in  fact  no  right 
life  in  it  that  I  can  find :  the  people  are  situated  here  like 
plants  in  a  hot-house,  to  which  the  quiet  influences  of 
sky  and  earth  are  never  in  their  unadulterated  state  ad- 
mitted. It  is  the  case  with  all  ranks:  the  carman  with 
his  huge  slouch-hat  hanging  half-way  down  his  back,  con- 
sumes his  breakfast  of  bread  and  tallow  or  hog's  lard, 
sometimes  as  he  swags  along  the  streets,  always  in  a  hur- 
ried and  precarious  fashion,  and  supplies  the  deficit  by 
continual  pipes,  and  pots  of  beer.  The  fashionable  lady 
rises  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  and  begins  to  live  towards 
midnight.  Between  these  two  extremes,  the  same  false 
and  tumultuous  manner  of  existence  more  or  less  infests 
all  ranks.  It  seems  as  if  you  were  for  ever  in  "an  inn," 
the  feeling  of  home  in  our  acceptation  of  the  term  is  not 
known  to  one  of  a  thousand.  You  are  packed  into  paltry 
shells  of  brick-houses  (calculated  to  endure  for  forty 
years,  and  then  fall) ;  every  door  that  slams  to  in  the 
street  is  audible  in  your  most  secret  chamber;  the  neces- 
saries of  life  are  hawked  about  through  multitudes  of 
hands,  and  reach  you,  frequently  adulterated,  always  at 
rather  more  than  twice  their  cost  elsewhere;  people's 
friends  must  visit  them  by  rule  and  measure ;  and  when 
you  issue  from  your  door,  you  are  assailed  by  vast  shoals 
of  quacks,  and  showmen,  and  street  sweepers,  and  pick- 
pockets, and  mendicants  of  every  degree  and  shape,  all 


212  THOMAS    CAELYLE  [Mi.  29 

plying  in  noise  or  silent  craft  their  several  vocations,  all 
in  their  hearts  like  "lions  ravening  for  their  prey."  The 
blackguard  population  of  the  place  is  the  most  consum- 
mately blackguard  of  anything  I  ever  saw. 

Yet  the  people  are  in  general  a  frank,  jolly,  well-living, 
kindly  people.  You  get  a  certain  way  in  their  good  graces 
with  great  ease :  they  want  little  more  with  you  than  now 
and  then  a  piece  of  recreating  conversation,  and  you  are 
quickly  on  terms  for  giving  and  receiving  it.  Farther,  I 
suspect,  their  nature  or  their  habits  seldom  carry  or  ad- 
mit them.  I  have  found  one  or  two  strange  mortals,  whom 
I  sometimes  stare  to  see  myself  beside.  There  is  Crabbe 
Robinson,  an  old  Templar  (Advocate  dwelling  in  the 
Temple),  who  gives  me  coffee  and  Sally-Lunns  (a  sort 
of  buttered  roll),  and  German  books,  and  talk  by  the 
gallon  in  a  minute.  His  windows  look  into  Alsatia! 
With  the  Montagus  I,  once  a  week  or  so,  step  in  and 
chat  away  a  friendly  hour:  they  are  good  clever  people, 
though  their  goodness  and  cleverness  are  strangely  min- 
gled with  absurdity  in  word  and  deed.  They  like  me 
very  well:  I  saw  Badams  there  last  night;  I  am  to  see 
him  more  at  large  to-morrow  or  soon  after.  Mrs.  Strachey 
has  twice  been  here  to  see  me — in  her  carriage,  a  circum- 
stance of  strange  omen  to  our  worthy  [friend],  .  .  . 
Among  the  Poets  I  see  Procter  and  Allan  Cunningham 
as  often  as  I  like:  the  other  night  I  had  a  second  and 
much  longer  talk  with  Campbell.  I  went  over  with  one 
Macbeth,  not  the  "Usurper,"  but  a  hapless  Preacher  from 
Scotland,  whose  gifts,  coupled  with  their  drawbacks,  can- 
not earn  him  bread  in  London,  though  Campbell  and 
Irving  and  many  more  are  doing  all  they  can  for  him. 
Thomas  is  a  clever  man,  and  we  had  a  much  more 
pleasant  conversation  than  our  first:  but  I  do  not  think 
my  view  of  him  was  materially  altered.  He  is  vain  and 
dry  in  heart;  the  brilliancy  of  his  mind  (which  will  not 
dazzle  you  to  death  after  all)  is  like  the  glitter  of  an 
iceberg  in  the  Greenland  seas;  parts  of  it  are  beautiful, 
but  it  is  cold,  cold,  and  you  would  rather  look  at  it 
than  touch  it.  I  partly  feel  for  Campbell:  his  early  life 
was  a  tissue  of  wretchedness  (here  in  London  he  has 
lived  upon  a  pennyworth  of  milk  and  a  penny  roll  per 
day);  and  at  length  his  soul  has  got  encrusted  as  with 


Mt.  33]  THOMAS    CAKLYLE  213 

a  case  of  iron;  and  lie  has  betaken  himself  to  sneering 
and  selfishness— a  common  issue! 

Irving  I  see  as  frequently  and  kindly  as  ever.  His 
church  and  boy  occupy  him  much.  The  madness  of 
his  popularity  is  altogether  over;  and  he  must  content 
himself  with  playing  a  much  lower  game  than  he  once 
anticipated;  nevertheless  I  imagine  he  will  do  much  good 
in  London,  where  many  men  like  him  are  greatly  wanted. 
His  wife  and  he  are  always  good  to  me. 

Respecting  my  future  movements  I  can  predict  nothing 
certain  yet.  It  is  not  improbable,  I  think,  that  I  may 
see  you  all  in  Scotland  before  many  weeks  are  come  and 
gone.  Here  at  any  rate,  in  my  present  circumstances, 
I  do  not  mean  to  stay:  it  is  expensive  beyond  measure 
(two  guineas  a  week  or  thereby  for  the  mere  items  of 
bed  and  board) ;  and  I  must  have  a  permanent  abode  of 
some  kind  devised  for  myself,  if  I  mean  to  do  any  good. 
Within  reach  of  Edinburgh  or  London,  it  matters  little 
which.  You  have  not  yet  determined  upon  leaving  or 
retaining  Mainhill?  I  think  it  is  a  pity  that  you  had 
not  some  more  kindly  spot:  at  all  events  a  better  house 
I  would  have.  Is  Mainholm  let  ?  By  clubbing  our  capi- 
tals together  we  might  make  something  of  it.  A  house 
in  the  country,  and  a  horse  to  ride  on,  I  must  and  will 
have  if  it  be  possible.  Tell  me  all  your  views  on  these 
things  when  you  write. 

.  .  .  Good  night!  my  dear  Alick! — I  am,  ever  your 
affectionate  Brother, 

T.  CARLYLE. 

[JSt.  33] 

To  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 
[LIFE  AT  CRAIGEXPUTTOCK] 
CRAIGENPUTTOCK,  llth  December,  1828. 
My  dear  Sir, — 

Having  the  opportunity  of  a  frank,  I  cannot  resist  the 
temptation  to  send  you  a  few  lines,  were  it  only  to  signify 
that  two  well-wishers  of  yours  are  still  alive  in  these 
remote  moors,  and  often  thinking  of  you  with  the  old 
friendly  feelings.  My  wife  encourages  me  in  this  inno- 
cent purpose:  she  has  learned  lately  that  you  were  in- 


214  THOMAS    CAELYLE  [Mt.  33 

quiring  for  her  of  some  female  friend;  nay,  even  prom- 
ising to  visit  us  here — a  fact  of  the  most  interesting 
sort  to  both  of  us.  I  am  to  say,  therefore,  that  your 
presence  at  this  fireside  will  diffuse  no  ordinary  gladness 
over  all  members  of  the  household;  that  our  warmest 
welcome,  and  such  solacements  as  even  the  desert  does 
not  refuse,  are  at  any  time  and  at  all  times  in  store 
for  one  we  love  so  well.  Neither  is  this  expedition  so 
impracticable.  We  lie  but  a  short  way  out  of  your  direct 
route  to  Westmoreland;  communicate  by  gravelled  roads 
with  Dumfries  and  other  places  in  the  habitable  globe. 
Were  you  to  warn  us  of  your  approach,  it  might  all  be 
made  easy  enough.  And  then  such  a  treat  it  would  be 
to  hear  the  sound  of  philosophy  and  literature  in  the 
hitherto  quite  savage  wolds,  where  since  the  creation  of 
the  world  no  such  music,  scarcely  even  articulate  speech, 
had  been  uttered  or  dreamed  of!  Come,  therefore,  come 
and  see  us ;  for  we  often  long  after  you.  Nay,  I  can  prom- 
ise, too,  that  we  are  almost  a  unique  sight  in  the  British 
Empire;  such  a  quantity  of  German  periodicals  and 
mystic  speculation  embosomed  in  plain  Scottish  Peat- 
moor  being  nowhere  else  that  I  know  of  to  be  met  with. 

In  idle  hours  we  sometimes  project  founding  a  sort  of 
colony  here,  to  be  called  the  "Misanthropic  Society";  the 
settlers  all  to  be  men  of  a  certain  philosophic  depth,  and 
intensely  sensible  of  the  present  state  of  literature;  each 
to  have  his  own  cottage,  encircled  with  roses  or  thistles 
as  he  might  prefer;  a  library  and  pantry  within,  and  huge 
stack  of  turf -fuel  without;  fenced  off  from  his  neigh- 
bours by  fir  woods,  and,  when  he  pleased,  by  cast-metal 
railing,  so  that  each  might  feel  himself  strictly  an  indi- 
vidual, and  free  as  a  son  of  the  wilderness ;  but  the  whole 
settlement  to  meet  weekly  over  coffee,  and  there  unite  in 
their  Miserere.,  or  what  were  better,  hurl  forth  their  de- 
fiance, pity,  expostulation,  over  the  whole  universe,  civil, 
literary,  and  religious.  I  reckon  this  place  a  much  fitter 
site  for  such  an  establishment  than  your  Lake  Country 
— a  region  abounding  in  natural  beauty,  but  blown  on  by 
coach-horns,  betrodden"  by  picturesque  tourists,  and  other- 
wise exceedingly  desecrated  by  too  frequent  resort; 
whereas  here,  though  still  in  communication  with  the 
manufacturing  world,  we  have  a  solitude  altogether  Dm- 


tat  33]  THOMAS    CARLYLE  215 

idical — grim  hills  tenanted  chiefly  by  the  wild  grouse, 
tarns  and  brooks  that  have  soaked  and  slumbered  unmo- 
lested since  the  Deluge  of  Noah,  and  nothing  to  disturb 
you  with  speech,  except  Arcturus  and  Orion,  and  the 
Spirit  of  Nature,  in  the  heaven  and  in  the  earth,  as  it 
manifests  itself  in  anger  or  love,  and  utters  its  inexplica- 
ble tidings,  unheard  by  the  mortal  ear.  But  the  misery 
is  the  almost  total  want  of  colonists!  Would  you  come 
hither  and  be  king  over  us;  then  indeed  we  had  made  a 
fair  beginning,  and  the  "Bog  School"  might  snap  its. 
fingers  at  the  "Lake  School"  itself,  and  hope  to  be  one 
day  recognised  of  all  men. 

But  enough  of  this  fooling.  Better  were  it  to  tell  you 
in  plain  prose  what  little  can  be  said  of  my  own  welfare, 
and  inquire  in  the  same  dialect  after  yours.  It  will 
gratify  you  to  learn  that  here,  in  the  desert,  as  in  the 
crowded  city,  I  am  moderately  active  and  well;  better  in 
health,  not  worse;  and  though  active  only  on  the  small 
scale,  yet  in  my  own  opinion  honestly,  and  to  as  much 
result  as  has  been  usual  with  me  at  any  time.  We  have 
horses  to  ride  on,  gardens  to  cultivate,  tight  walls  and 
strong  fires  to  defend  us  against  winter;  books  to  read, 
paper  to  scribble  on;  and  no  man  or  thing,  at  least  in 
this  visible  earth,  to  make  us  afraid;  for  I  reckon  that 
so  securely  sequestered  are  we,  not  only  would  no  Catholic 
rebellion,  but  even  no  new  Hengist  and  Horsa  invasion, 
in  anywise  disturb  our  tranquillity.  True,  we  have  no 
society;  but  who  has,  in  the  strict  sense  of  that  word?  I 
have  never  had  any  worth  speaking  much  about  since  I 
came  into  this  world:  in  the  next,  it  may  be,  they  will 
order  matters  better.  Meanwhile,  if  we  have  not  the 
wheat  in  great  quantity,  we  are  nearly  altogether  free 
from  the  chaff,  which  often  in  this  matter  is  highly  an- 
noying to  weak  nerves.  My  wife  and  I  are  busy  learning 
Spanish;  far  advanced  in  Don  Quixote  already.  I  pur- 
pose writing  mystical  Reviews  for  somewhat  more  than 
a  twelvemonth  to  come ;  have  Greek  to  read,  and  the 
whole  universe  to  study  (for  I  understand  less  and  less 
of  it)  ;  so  that  here  as  well  as  elsewhere  I  find  that  a  man 
may  "dree  his  wierd"  (serve  out  his  earthly  apprentice- 
ship) with  reasonable  composure,  and  wait  what  the 
flight  of  years  may  bring  him,  little  disappointed  (unless 


216  THOMAS    CAELYLE  [^t.  33 

lie  is  a  fool)  if  it  brings  him  mere  nothing  save  what  he 
has  already — a  body  and  a  soul — more  cunning  and  costly 
treasures  than  all  Golconda  and  Potosi  could  purchase 
for  him.  What  would  the  vain  worm,  man,  be  at?  Has 
he  not  a  head,  to  speak  of  nothing  else — a  head  ^(be  it 
with  a  hat  or  without  one)  full  of  far  richer  things 'than 
Windsor  Palace,  or  the  Brighton  Teapot  added  to  it? 
What  are  all  Dresden  picture-galleries  and  magazines 
des  arts  et  des  metiers  to  the  strange  painting  and  thrice 
wonderful  and  thrice  precious  workmanship  that  goes  on 
under  the  cranium  of  a  beggar?  What  can  be  added  to 
him  or  taken  from  him  by  the  hatred  or  love  of  all  men  ? 
The  grey  paper  or  the  white  silk  paper  in  which  the  gold 
ingot  is  wrapped;  the  gold  is  inalienable;  he  is  the  gold. 
But  truce  also  to  this  moralising.  I  had  a  thousand 
things  to  ask  concerning  you:  your  employments,  pur- 
poses, sufferings  and  pleasures.  Will  you  not  write  to  me  ? 
will  you  not  come  to  me  and  tell?  Believe  it,  you  are 
well  loved  here,  and  none  feels  better  than  I  what  a  spirit 
is  for  the  present  eclipsed  in  clouds.  For  the  present  it 
can  only  be;  time  and  chance  are  for  all  men;  that 
troublous  season  will  end;  and  one  day  with  more  joy- 
ful, not  deeper  or  truer  regard,  I  shall  see  you  "yourself 
again."  Meanwhile,  pardon  me  this  intrusion;  and  write, 
if  you  have  a  vacant  hour  which  you  would  fill  with  a 
good  action.  Mr.  Jeffery  [sic]  is  still  anxious  to  know 
you;  has  he  ever  succeeded?  We  are  not  to  be  in  Edin- 
burgh, I  believe,  till  spring;  but  I  will  send  him  a  letter 
to  you  (with  your  permission)  by  the  first  conveyance. 
Remember  me  with  best  regards  to  Professor  Wilson  and 
Sir  W.  Hamilton,  neither  of  whom  must  forget  me;  not 
omitting  the  honest  Gordon,  who  I  know  will  not. 

The  bearer  of  this  letter  is  Henry  Inglis,  a  young  gen- 
tleman of  no  ordinary  talent  and  worth,  in  whom,  as  I 
believe,  es  steckt  gar  viel.  Should  he  call  himself,  pray 
let  this  be  an  introduction,  for  he  reverences  all  spiritual 
worth,  and  you  also  will  learn  to  love  him. — With  all 
friendly-  sentiments,  I  am  ever,  my  dear  sir,  most  faith- 
fully yours, 

T.  CARLYLE. 


Mt.  38]  THOMAS    CAKLYLE  217 

[>£t.  38] 

To  DR.  CARLYLE  ' .  ,~ 

[SETTLING  DOWN  AT  CHELSEA] 

CHEYNE  Kow,  CHELSEA,  LONDON, 

17th  June,  1834. 
My  dear  Brother, — 

.  .  .  You  can  fancy  what  weary  lonesome  wander- 
ings I  had,  through  the  dusty  suburbs,  and  along  the 
burning  streets,  under  a  fierce  May  sun  with  East  wind; 
"seeking  through  the  nation  for  some  habitation!"  At 
length  Jane  sent  me  comfortable  tidings  of  innumerable 
difficulties  overcome;  and  finally  (in,  I  think,  the  fourth 
week)  arrived  herself;  with  the  Furniture  all  close  fol- 
lowing her,  in  one  of  Pickford's  Track-boats.  I  carried 
her  to  certain  of  the  hopefullest-looking  Houses  I  had 
fallen  in  with,  and  a  toilsome  time  we  anew  had:  how- 
ever, it  was  not  long;  for,  on  the  second  inspection,  this 
old  Chelsea  mansion  pleased  very  decidedly  far  better 
than  any  other  we  could  see;  and,  the  people  also  whom 
it  belongs  to  proving  reasonable,  we  soon  struck  a  bar- 
gain, and  in  three  days  more  (precisely  this  day  week)  a 
Hackney  Coach,  loaded  to  the  roof  and  beyond  it  with 
luggage  and  live-passengers,  tumbled  us  all  down  here 
about  eleven  in  the  morning.  By  "all"  I  mean  my  Dame 
and  myself;  Bessy  Barnet,  who  had  come  the  night  be- 
fore; and — little  Chico,  the  Canary-bird,  who,  multum 
jactatus,  did  nevertheless  arrive  living  and  well  from 
Puttock,  and  even  sang  violently  all  the  way  hy  sea  of 
land,  nay  struck  up  his  lilt  in  the  very  London  streets 
wherever  he  could  see  green  leaves  and  feel  the  free  air. 
There  then  we  sat  on  three  trunks;  I,  however,  with  a 
match-box,  soon  lit  a  cigar,  as  Bessy  did  a  fire;  and  thus 
with  a  kind  of  cheerful  solemnity  we  took  possession  by 
"raising  reek,"  and  even  dined  in  an  extempore  fashion, 
on  a  box-lid  covered  with  some  accidental  towel.  At  two 
o'clock  the  Pickfords  did  arrive;  and  then  began  the 
hurly-burly;  which  even  yet  has  but  grown  quieter,  will 
not  grow  quiet,  for  a  fortnight  to  come.  However,  two 
rooms  and  two  bedrooms  are  now  in  a  partially  civilised 
state;  the  broken  Furniture  is  mostly  mended;  I  have  my 


218  THOMAS    CAELYLE  [Mt.  38 

old  writing-table  again  (here)  firm  as  Atlas;  a  large 
wainscoted  drawing-room  (which  is  to  be  my  study)  with 
the  "red  carpet"  tightly  spread  on  it;  my  Books  all  safe 
in  Presses;  the  Belisarius  Picture  right  in  front  of  me 
over  the  mantel-piece  (most  suitable  to  its  new  wainscot 
lodging),  and  my  beloved  Segretario  Ambulant e  right  be- 
hind, with  the  two  old  Italian  Engravings,  and  others 
that  I  value  less,  dispersed  around;  and  so,  opposite  the 
middle  of  my  three  windows,  with  little  but  huge  Scotch 
elm-trees  looking  in  on  me,  and  in  the  distance  an  ivied 
House,  and  a  sunshiny  sky  bursting  out  from  genial  rain, 
I  sit  here  already  very  much  at  home,  and  impart  to  my 
dear  and  true  Brother  a  thankfulness  which  he  is  sure 
to  share  in.  We  have  indeed  much  reason  to  be  thank- 
ful every  way. 

With  the  House  we  are  all  highly  pleased,  and,  I  think, 
the  better,  the  longer  we  know  it  hitherto.  I  know  not 
if  you  ever  were  at  Chelsea,  especially  at  Old  Chelsea,  of 
which  this  is  portion.  It  stretches  from  Battersea  Bridge 
(a  queer  old  wooden  structure,  where  they  charge  you  a 
halfpenny)  along  the  bank  of  the  River,  westward  a  little 
way;  and  eastward  (which  is  our  side)  some  quarter  of  a 
mile,  forming  a  "Cheyne  Walk"  (pronounced  Chainie 
walk)  of  really  grand  old  brick  mansions,  dating  perhaps 
from  Charles  II.'s  time  ("Don  Saltero's  Coffeehouse"  of 
the  Tatler  is  still  fresh  and  brisk  among  them),  with 
flagged  pavement;  carriage-way  between  two  rows  of 
stubborn:looking  high  old  pollarded  trees;  and  then  the 
river  with  its  varied  small  craft,  fast-moving  or  safe- 
moored,  and  the  wholesome  smell  (among  the  breezes)  of 
sea  tar.  Cheyne  Row  (or  Great  Cheyne  Row,  when  we 
wish  to  be  grand)  runs  up  at  right  angles  from  this,  has 
some  twenty  Houses  of  the  same  fashion;  Upper  Cheyne 
Row  (where  Hunt  lives)  turning  again  at  right  angles, 
some  stone-cast  from  this  door.  Frontwards  we  have 
the  outlook  I  have  described  already  (or  if  we  shove  out 
our  head,  the  River  is  disclosed  some  hundred  paces  to 
the  left) ;  backwards,  from  the  ground  floor,  our  own 
gardenkin  (which  I  with  new  garden-tools  am  actually 
re-trimming  every  morning),  and,  from  all  the  other 
floors,  nothing  but  leafy  clumps,  and  green  fields,  and 


m.  38]  THOMAS    CAKLYLE  219 

red  high-peaked  roofs  glimmering  through  them:  a  most 
clear,  pleasant  prospect,  in  these  fresh  westerly  airs !  Of 
London  nothing  visible  but  Westminster  Abbey  and  the 
topmost  dome  of  St.  Paul's;  other  faint  ghosts  of  spires 
(one  other  at  least)  disclose  themselves,  as  the  smoke- 
cloud  shifts;  but  I  have  not  yet  made  out  what  they  are. 
At  night  we  are  pure  and  silent,  almost  as  at  Puttock; 
and  the  gas-light  shimmer  of  the  great  Babylon  hangs 
stretched  from  side  to  side  of  our  horizon.  To  Bucking- 
ham Gate  it  is  thirty-two  minutes  of  my  walking  (Allan 
Cunningham's  door  about  half  way) ;  nearly  the  very 
same  to  Hyde-Park  Corner,  to  which  latter  point  we  have 
omnibuses  every  quarter  of  an  hour  (they  say)  that  carry 
you  to  the  Whitehorse  Cellar,  or  even  to  Coventry  Street, 
for  sixpence ;  calling  for  you  at  the  very  threshold. 
Nothing  was  ever  so  discrepant  in  my  experience  as  the 
Craigenputtock-silence  of  this  House  and  then  the  world- 
hubhub  of  London  and  its  people  into  which  a  few  min- 
utes bring  you:  I  feel  as  if  a  day  spent  between  the  two 
must  be  the  epitome  of  a  month.  .  .  .  The  rent  is  £35; 
which  really  seems  £10  cheaper  than  such  a  House  could 
be  had  for  in  Dumfries  or  Annan.  The  secret  is  our  old 
friend,  "Gigmanity":  Chelsea  is  unfashionable;  it  is  also 
reputed  unhealthy.  The  former  quality  we  rather  like 
(for  our  neighbours  still  are  all  polite-living  people)  ;  the 
latter  we  do  not  in  the  faintest  degree  believe  in,  remem- 
bering that  Chelsea  was  once  considered  the  "London 
Montpelier,"  and  knowing  that  in  these  matters  now  as 
formerly  the  Cockneys  "know  nothing,"  only  rush  in 
masses  blindly  and  sheep-wise.  Our  worst  fault  is  the 
want  of  a  good  free  rustic  walk,  like  Kensington  Gar- 
dens, which  are  above  a  mile  off.:  however,  we  have  the 
"College"  or  Hospital  grounds,  with  their  withered  old 
Pensioners;  we  have  open  carriage-ways,  and  lanes,  and 
really  a  very  pretty  route  to  Piccadilly  (different  from 
the  omnibus  route)  through  the^new  Grosvenor  edifices, 
Eaton  Square,  Belgrave  Place,  etc. :  I  have  also  walked 
to  Westminster  Hall  by  Yauxhall  Bridge-end,  Millbank, 
etc.;  but  the  road  is  squalid,  confused,  dusty,  and  de- 
testable, and  happily  need  not  be  returned  to.  To  con- 
clude, we  are  here  on  literary  classical  ground,  as  Hunt 


220  THOMAS    CAELYLE  uEt.  38 


is  continually  ready  to  declare  and  unfold  :  not  a  stone- 
cast  from  this  House  Smollett  wrote  his  Count  Fathom 
(the  house  is  ruined  and  we  happily  do  not  see  it)  ;  hardly 
another  stone-cast  off,  old  More  entertained  Erasmus:  to 
say  nothing  of  Bolingbroke  St.  John,  of  Paradise  Row, 
and  the  Count  de  Grammont,  for  in  truth  we  care  almost 
nothing  for  them.  On  the  whole  we  are  exceedingly  con- 
tent so  far;  and  have  reason  to  be  so.  I  add  only  that 
our  furniture  came  with  wonderfully  little  breakage,  and 
for  less  than  £20,  Annan  included;  that  Jane  sold  all  her 
odd  things  to  Nanny  Macqueen  on  really  fair  terms; 
and  that  we  find  new  furniture  of  all  sorts  exceedingly 
cheap  here,  and  have  already  got  what  we  need,  or  nearly 
so,  for  less  than  our  own  old  good,  brought  us  on  the 
spot.  .  .  . 

There  is  now  a  word  to  be  said  on  Economics,  and  the 
Commissariat  Department.  Bookselling  is  still  at  its 
lowest  ebb;  yet  on  the  whole  better  than  I  expected  to 
find  it.  Eraser  is  the  only  craftsman  I  have  yet  seen: 
he  talks  still  of  loss  by  his  Magazine  and  I  think  will  not 
willingly  employ  me  much,  were  I  never  so  ready,  at  the 
old  rate  of  writing.  He  seems  a  well-intentioned  crea- 
ture; I  can  really  pity  him  in  the  place  he  occupies.  I 
went  yesterday  with  a  project  of  a  series  of  Articles  on 
Erench  Revolution  matters;  chiefly  to  be  translated  from 
Memoir  es:  but  he  could  not  take  them,  at  any  rate,  or 
indeed  at  almost  any  rate;  for  he  spoke  of  £10  a  sheet 
as  quite  a  ransom.  He  has  got  my  name  (such  as  it  is), 
and  can  do  better  without  me.  However,  he  will  cheer- 
fully print  (for  "half  -profits,"  that  is,  zero)  a  projected 
Book  of  mine  on  the  Erench  Revolution;  to  which  ac- 
cordingly, if  no  new  thing  occur,  I  shall  probably  very 
soon  with  all  my  heart  address  myself,  in  full  purpose 
to  do  my  best,  and  put  my  name  to  it.  The  Diamond 
Necklace  Paper  his  Boy  got  from  me,  by  appointment, 
this  morning;  to  be  examined  whether  it  will  make  a 
Book:  as  an  Article  I  shall  perhaps  hardly  think  of  giv- 
ing it  to  him.  For,  you  are  to  understand,  that  Radical 
Review  of  Mill's,  after  seeming  to  be  quite  abandoned, 
has  now  a  far  fairer  chance  of  getting  started:  a  Sir  W. 
Molesworth,  a  young  man  whom  I  have  seen  at  Buller's 


^Et.  39]  THOMAS    CAKLYLE  221 

and  liked,  offers  to  furnish  all  the  money  himself  (and 
can  do  it,  being  very  rich),  and  to  take  no  further  hand 
in  it,  once  a  Manager  that  will  please  Mill  is  found  for 
it.  Mill  is  to  be  here  to-morrow  evening  :  I  think,  I  must 
appoint  some  meetmg  with  Molesworth,  and  give  him  my 
whole  views  of  it,  and  express  my  readiness  to  take  a 
most  hearty  hold  of  it;  having  the  prospect  of  right  com- 
panions; none  yet  but  Mill  and  Buller,  and  such  as  we 
may  further  approve  of  and  add.  It  seems  likely*  something 
may  come  of  this.  In  any  other  case,  Periodical  Author- 
ship, like  all  other  forms  of  it,  seems  done  in  the  econom- 
ical sense  :  I  think  of  quite  abandoning  it  ;  of  writing  my 
Book;  and  then,  with  such  name  as  it  may  give  me,  start- 
ing some  new  course,  or  courses,  to  make  honest  wages 
by.  A  poor  Fanny  Wright  (whom  we  are  to  hear  to- 
night in  Freemason's  Hall)  goes  lecturing  over  the  whole 
world:  before  sight,  I  will  engage  to  lecture  twice  as 
well;  being,  as  Glen  once  said,  with  great  violence,  to 
me,  "the  more  gigantic  spirit  of  the  two."  On  the  whole, 
I  fear  nothing.  There  are  funds  here  already  to  keep  us 
going  above  a  year,  independently  of  all  incomings:  be- 
fore that  we  may  have  seen  into  much,  tried  much,  and 
succeeded  in  somewhat.  "God's  providence  they  cannot 
hinder  thee  of":  that  is  the  thing  I  always  repeat  to  my- 
self, or  know  without  repeating.  .  .  . 

God  bless  you,  dear  Brother!     Vale  mei  memor. 

T.  CARLYLE. 


.  39] 

To  DR.  CARLYLE 
[THE  BURNING  OF  THE  "FRENCH  REVOLUTION"  MS.] 

CHEYNE  Row,  CHELSEA,  LONDON, 

23d  March,  1835. 
My  dear  Brother,  — 

Your  Letter  came  in  this  morning  (after  sixteen  days 
from  Rome)  ;  and,  to-morrow  being  post-day,  I  have 
shoved  my  writing-table  into  the  corner,  and  sit  (with 
my  back  to  the  fire  and  Jane,  who  is  busy  sewing  at  my 
old  jupe  of  a  Dressing-gown),  forthwith  making  answer. 
It  was  somewhat  longed  for;  yet  I  felt,  in  other  respects, 


222  THOMAS    CAKLYLE  [JSt.  39 

that  it  was  better  you  had  not  written  sooner;  for  I  had 
a  thing  to  dilate  upon,  of  a  most  ravelled  character,  that 
was  better  to  be  knit  up  a  little  first.  You  shall  hear. 
But  do  not  be  alarmed;  for  it  is  "neither  death  nor  men's 
lives" :  we  are  all  well,  and  I  heard^  out  of  Annandale 
within  these  three  weeks,  nay,  Jane's  Newspaper  came 
with  the  customary  "two  strokes,"  *  only  five  days  ago. 
I  meant  to  write  to  our  Mother  last  night;  but  shall  now 
do  it  to-morrow. 

Mill  had  borrowed  that  first  Volume  of  my  poor  French 
Revolution  (pieces  of  it  more  than  once}  that  he  might 
have  it  all  before  him,  and  write  down  some  observations 
on  it,  which  perhaps  I  might  print  as  Notes.  I  was  busy 
meanwhile  with  Volume  Second;  toiling  along  like  a 
Nigger,  but  with  the  heart  of  a  free  Roman:  indeed,  I 
know  not  how  it  was,  I  had  not  felt  so  clear  and  inde- 
pendent, sure  of  myself  and  of  my  task  for  many  long 
years.  Well,  one  night  about  three  weeks  ago,  we  sat  at 
tea,  and  Mill's  short  rap  was  heard  at  the  door :  Jane  rose 
to  welcome  him;  but  he  stood  there  unresponsive,  pale, 
the  very  picture  of  despair;  said,  half-articulately  gasp- 
ing, that  she  must  go  down  and  speak  to  "Mrs.  Taylor." 
.  .  .  After  some  considerable  additional  gasping,  I 
learned  from  Mill  this  fact:  that  my  poor  Manuscript, 
all  except  some  four  tattered  leaves,  was  annihilated!  He 
had  left  it  out  (too  carelessly) ;  it  had  been  taken  for 
waste-paper:  and  so  five  months  of  as  tough  labour  as  I 
could  remember  of,  were  as  good  as  vanished,  gone  like 
a  whiff  of  smoke. — There  never  in  my  life  had  come  upon 
me  any  other  accident  of  much  moment ;  but  this  I  could 
not  but  feel  to  be  a  sore  one.  The  thing  was  lost,  and 
perhaps  worse;  for  I  had  not  only  forgotten  all  the  struc- 
ture of  it,  but  the  spirit  it  was  written  with  was  past; 
only  the  general  impression  seemed  to  remain,  and  the 
recollection  that  I  was  on  the  whole  well  satisfied  with 
that,  and  could  now  hardly  hope  to  equal  it.  Mill,  whom 
I  had  to  comfort  and  speak  peace  to,  remained  inju- 
diciously enough  till  almost  midnight,  and  my  poor  Dame 
and  I  had  to  sit  talking  of  indifferent  matters;  and  could 

*  A  manner  of  indicating  that  "all  was  well." 


Mt.  39]  THOMAS    CARLYLE  223 

not  till  then  get  our  lament  freely  uttered.  She  was  very 
good  to  me;  and  the  thing  did  not  beat  us.  I  felt  in 
general  that  I  was  as  a  little  Schoolboy,  who  had  labori- 
ously written  out  his  Copy  as  he  could,  and  was  showing 
it  not  without  satisfaction  to  the  Master :  but  lo !  the  Mas- 
ter had  suddenly  torn  it,  saying:  "No,  boy,  thou  must  go 
and  write  it  better"  What  could  I  do  but  sorrowing  go 
and  try  to  obey.  That  night  was  a  hard  one;  something 
from  time  to  time  tying  me  tight  as  it  were  all  round  the 
region  of  the  heart,  and  strange  dreams  haunting  me: 
however,  I  was  not  without  good  thoughts  too  that  came 
like  healing  life  into  me;  and  I  got  it  somewhat  reason- 
ably crushed  down,  not  abolished,  yet  subjected  to  me 
with  the  resolution  and  prophecy  of  abolishing.  Next 
morning  accordingly  I  wrote  to  Fraser  (who  had  adver- 
tised the  Book  as  "preparing  for  publication")  that  it  was 
all  gone  back;  that  he  must  not  speak'  of  it  to  any  one 
(till  it  was  made  good  again) ;  finally  that  he  must  send 
me  some  better  paper,  and  also  a  Biographie  Universelle, 
for  I  was  determined  to  risk  ten  pounds  more  upon  it. 
Poor  Fraser  was  very  assiduous:  I  got  Bookshelves  put 
up  (for  the  whole  House  was  flowing  with  Books),  where 
the  Biographie  (not  Fraser's,  however,  which  was  coun- 
termanded, but  Mill's),  with  much  else  stands  all  ready, 
much  readier  than  before:  and  so,  having  first  finished 
out  the  Piece  I  was  actually  upon,  I  began  again  at  the 
beginning.  Early  the  day  after  to-morrow  (after  a  hard 
and  quite  novel  kind  of  battle)  I  count  on  having  the 
First  Chapter  on  paper  a  second  time,  no  worse  than  it 
was,  though  considerably  different.  The  bitterness  of  the 
business  is  past  therefore;  and  you  must  conceive  me 
toiling  along  in  that  new  way  for  many  weeks  to  come. 
As  for  Mill  I  must  yet  tell  you  the  best  side  of  him.  Next 
day  after  the  accident  he  writes  me  a  passionate  Letter 
requesting  with  boundless  earnestness  to  be  allowed  to 
make  the  loss  good  as  far  as  money  was  concerned  in  it. 
I  answered:  Yes,  since  he  so  desired  it;  for  in  our 'circum- 
stances it  was  not  unreasonable:  in  about  a  week  he  ac- 
cordingly transmits  me  a  draft  for  £200 ;  I  had  computed 
that  my  five  months'  housekeeping,  etc.,  had  cost  me  £100 ; 
which  sum  therefore  and  not  two  hundred  was  the  one, 


224  THOMAS    CAELYLE  [^t.  39 

I  told  him,  I  could  take.  He  has  been  here  since  then; 
but  has  not  sent  the  £100,  though  I  suppose  he  will  soon 
do  it,  and  so  the  thing  will  end, — more  handsomely  than 
one  could  have  expected.  I  ought  to  draw  from  it  vari- 
ous practical  "uses  of  improvement"  (among  others  not 
to  lend  manuscripts  again) ;  and  above  all  things  try  to 
do  the  work  better  than  it  was;  in  which  case  I  shall 
never  grudge  the  labour,  but  reckon  it  a  goodhap. — It 
really  seemed  to  me  a  Book  of  considerable  significance; 
and  not  unlikely  even  to  be  of  some  interest  at  present: 
but  that  latter,  and  indeed  all  economical  and  other  the 
like  considerations  had  become  profoundly  indifferent  to 
me;  I  felt  that  I  was  honestly  writing  down  and  delineat- 
ing a  World-Fact  (which  the  Almighty  had  brought  to 
pass  in  the  world)  ;  that  it  was  an  honest  work  for  me, 
and  all  men  might  do  and  say  of  it  simply  what  seemed 
good  to  them. — Nay  I  have  got  back  my  spirits  again 
(after  this  first  Chapter),  and  hope  I  shall  go  on  tolerably. 
I  will  struggle  assiduously  to  be  done  with  it  by  the  time 
you  are  to  be  looked  for  (which  meeting  may  God  bring 
happily  to  pass) ;  and  in  that  case  I  will  cheerfully  throw 
the  business  down  a  while,  and  walk  off  with  you  to  Scot- 
land; hoping  to  be  ready  for  the  next  publishing  season. 
— This  is  my  ravelled  concern,  dear  Jack;  which  you  see 
is  in  the  way  to  knit  itself  up  again,  before  I  am  called 
to  tell  you  of  it.  And  now  for  something  else.  I  was  for 
writing  to  you  of  it  next  day  after  it  happened :  but  Jane 
suggested,  it  would  only  grieve  you,  till  I  could  say  it 
was  in  the  way  towards  adjustment;  which  counsel  I  saw 
to  be  right.  Let  us  hope  assuredly  that  the  whole  will 
be  for  good.  .  .  . 

Our  visitors  and  visitings  are  what  I  cannot  give  you 
account  of  this  time:  not  that  they  are  many;  but 
that  the  sheet  is  so  near  full.  One  Taylor  (Henry  Tay- 
lor, who  -has  written  a  Philip  van  Artevelde,  a  good  man, 
whose  laugh  reminds  me  of  poor  Irving's)  invited  me  to 
meet  Southey  some  weeks  ago.  I  went  and  met  Southey. 
A  man  of  clear  brown  complexion,  large  nose,  no  chin, 
or  next  to  none;  care-lined  and  thought-lined  brow, 
vehement  hazel  eyes ;  huge  mass  of  white  hair  surmount- 
ing it;  a  strait-laced,  limited,  well-instructed,  well-condi- 


Mt.  39]  THOMAS    CAKLYLE  225 

tioned,  excessively  sensitive  even  irritable-looking  man. 
His  irritability  I  think  is  his  grand  spiritual  feature;  as 
his  grand  bodily  is  perhaps  leanness  and  long  legs:  a 
nervous  female  might  shriek  when  he  rises  for  the  first 
time,  and  stretches  to  such  unexpected  length — like  a  lean 
pair  of  tongs!  We  parted  good  friends;  and  may  meet 
again,  or  not  meet,  as  Destiny  orders.  At  the  same  house, 
since  that,  Jane  and  I  went  to  meet  Wordsworth.  I  did 
not  expect  much;  but  got  mostly  what  I  expected.  The 
old  man  has  a  fine  shrewdness  and  naturalness  in  his  ex- 
pression of  face  (a  long  Cumberland  figure) ;  one  finds 
also  a  kind  of  sincerity  in  his  speech:  but  for  prolixity, 
thinness,  endless  dilution  it  excels  all  the  other  speech  I 
had  heard  from  mortal.  A  genuine  man  (which  is  much), 
but  also  essentially  a  small  genuine  man :  nothing  per- 
haps is  sadder  (of  the  glad  kind)  than  the  unbounded 
laudation  of  such  a  man ;  sad  proof  of  the  rarity  of  such. 
I  fancy,  however,  he  has  fallen  into  the  garrulity  of  age, 
and  is  not  what  he  was:  also  that  his  environment  (and 
rural  Prophethood)  has  hurt  him  much.  He  seems  im- 
patient that  even  Shakespeare  should  be  admired:  "so 
much  out  of  my  own  pocket!"  The  shake  of  hand  he 
gives  you  is  feckless,  egoistical;  I  rather  fancy  he  loves 
nothing  in  the  world  so  much  as  one  could  wish.  When 
I  compare  that  man  with  a  great  man, — alas,  he  is  like 
dwindling  into  a  contemptibility;  Jean  Paul  (for  exam- 
ple), neither  was  he  great,  could  have  worn  him  as  a 
finger-ring.  However,  when  "I  go  to  Cumberland," 
Wordsworth  will  still  be  a  glad  sight. — I  have  not  been 
fortunate  in  my  Pen  to-night;  indeed  for  the  last  page  I 
have  been  writing  with  the  back  of  it.  This  and  my  speed 
will  account  for  the  confusion.  Porridge  has  just  come 
in.  I  will  to  bed  without  writing  more;  and  finish  to- 
morrow. Good  night,  dear  Brother! — Ever  yours!  .  .  . 


226  THOMAS    CARLYLE  [^Et.  41 

.  41] 


To  JOHN  CARLYLE 
[LECTURING;  A  POSTSCRIPT  BY  JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE] 

CHELSEA,  May  30,  1837. 

As  to  the  lectures  the  thing  went  off  not  without  effect, 
and  I  have  great  cause  to  be  thankful  I  am  so  handsomely 
quit  of  it.  The  audience,  composed  of  mere  quality  and 
notabilities,  was  very  humane  to  me.  They  seemed  in- 
deed to  be  not  a  little  astonished  at  the  wild  Annandale 
voice  which  occasionally  grew  high  and  earnest.  In  these 
cases  they  sate  as  still  under  me  as  stones.  I  had,  I  think, 
two  hundred  and  odd.  The  pecuniary  net  result  is  135  1., 
the  expenses  being  great;  but  the  ulterior  issues  may  be 
less  inconsiderable.  It  seems  possible  I  may  get  into  a 
kind  of  way  of  lecturing,  or  otherwise  speaking  direct  to 
my  fellow-creatures,  and  so  get  delivered  out  of  this  aw- 
ful quagmire  of  difficulties  in  which  you  have  so  long 
seen  me  struggle  and  wriggle.  Heaven  be  thanked  that 
it  is  done  this  time  so  tolerably,  and  we  here  still  alive. 
I  hardly  ever  in  my  life  had  such  a  moment  as  that  of 
the  commencement  when  you  were  thinking  of  me  at 
Rome.  My  printers  had  only  ceased  the  day  before.  I 
was  wasted  and  fretted  to  a  thread.  My  tongue,  let  me 
drink  as  I  would,  continued  dry  as  charcoal.  The  people 
were  there;  I  was  obliged  to  tumble  in  and  start.  Ach 
Gott!  But  it  was  got  through,  and  so  here  we  are.  Our 
mother  was  lolack-^aised,  though  I  had  written  to  her  to 
be  only  white-baised.  But  she  read  the  notice  in  the 
"Times,"  and  "wept,"  she  tells  me,  and  again  read  it. 
Jane  went  to  the  last  four  lectures  and  did  not  faint. 

And  now  I  am  delving  in  the  garden  to  compose  my- 
self, and  meaning  to  have  things  leisurely  settled  up  here, 
and  then  start  for  Scotland.  I  should  much  approve  of 
your  scheme  of  our  going  all  in  a  body.  Indeed  I  have 
tried  it  every  way,  but  it  will  not  do.  Quiet  observation 
forces  on  me  the  conclusion  that  Jane  and  her  mother 
cannot  .live  together.  Very  sad  and  miserable,  you  will 
say.  Truly,  but  so  it  is;  and  I  am  further  bound  to  say 
that  the  chief  blame  does  verily  not  lie  at  our  side  of  the 
house.  Nay,  who  would  be  in  haste  to  lay  any  blame 
anywhere?  But  poor  Mrs.  Welsh,  with  literally  the  best 


Mt.  41]  THOMAS    CAELYLE  227 

intentions,  is  a  person  you  cannot  live  with  peaceably  on 
any  other  terms  I  could  ever  discover  than  those  of  dis- 
regarding altogether  the  whims,  emotions,  caprices,  and 
conclusions  she  takes  up  chameleonlike  by  the  thousand 
daily.  She  and  I  do  very  well  together  on  these  terms: 
at  least  I  do.  But  Jane  and  she  cannot  live  so.  Mrs. 
Welsh  .seems  to  think  of  going  off  home  in  a  short  time. 
Jane  prefers  being  left  here,  and  thinks  that  she  could 
even  do  better  without  the  perpetual  pouting  and  fretting 
she  is  tried  with. 

My  own  health  is  not  fundamentally  hurt.  Rest  will 
cure  me.  I  must  be  a  toughish  kind  of  a  lath  after  all; 
for  my  life  here  these  three  years  has  been  sore  and  stern, 
almost  frightful;  nothing  but  eternity  beyond  it,  in  which 
seemed  any  peace.  Perhaps  better  days  are  now  begin- 
ning. God  be  thanked  we  can  still  do  without  such;  still 
and  always  if  so  it  be.  .  .  .1  grow  better  daily ;  I  delve, 
as  you  heard;  I  walk  much,  generally  alone  through  the 
lanes  and  parks;  I  have  lived  much  alone  for  a  long  time, 
refusing  to  go  anywhere;  finding  no  pleasure  in  going 
anywhere  or  speaking  with  anyone. 

[By  MRS.  CARLYLE] 

P.S.  I  do  not  find  that  my  husband  has  given  you 
any  adequate  notion  of  the  success  of  his  lectures;  but 
you  will  make  large  allowance  for  the  known  modesty  of 
the  man.  Nothing  that  he  has  ever  tried  seems  to  me 
to  have  carried  such  conviction  to  the  public  heart  that 
he  is  a  real  man  of  genius,  and  worth  being  kept  alive 
at  a  moderate  rate.  Lecturing  were  surely  an  easier  pro- 
fession than  authorship.  We  shall  see.  My  cough  is 
quite  gone,  and  there  is  no  consumption  about  me  at 
present.  I  expect  to  grow  strong,  now  that  he  has  noth- 
ing more  to  worry  him. 


228  THOMAS    CAELYLE  [.Et.  42, 

.  42] 


To  EMERSON  * 
[WEARINESS;  STERLING;  EMERSON'S  "CLEAR  HIGH  MELODY"] 

CHELSEA,  LONDON,  8  December,  1837. 
My  dear  Emerson,  — 

How  long  it  is  since  you  last  heard  of  me  I  do  not 
very  accurately  know;  but  it  is  too  long.  A  very  long, 
ugly,  inert,  and  unproductive  chapter  of  my  own  his- 
tory seems  to  have  passed  since  then.  Whenever  I  delay 
writing,  be  sure  matters  go  not  well  with  me;  and  do  you 
in  that  case,  write  to  me,  were  it  again  and  over  again  — 
unweariable  in  pity. 

I  did  go  to  Scotland,  for  almost  three  months;  leaving 
my  Wife  here  with  her  Mother.  The  poor  Wife  had  fallen 
so  weak  that  she  gave  me  real  terror  in  the  spring-time, 
and  made  the  Doctor  look  very  grave  indeed:  she  contin- 
ued too  weak  for  travelling:  I  was  worn  out  as  I  had 
never  in  my  life  been.  So,  on  the  longest  day  of  June, 
I  got  back  to  my  Mother's  cottage;  threw  myself  down, 
I  may  say,  into  what  we  may  call  the  "frightfulest  mag- 
netic sleep"  and  lay  there  avoiding  the  intercourse  of 
men.  Most  wearisome  had  their  gabble  become;  almost 
unearthly.  But  indeed  all  was  unearthly  in  that  humour. 
The  gushing.  of  my  native  brooks,  the  sough  of  the  old 
solitary  woods,  the  great  roar  of  old  native  Solway  (bil- 
lowing fresh  out  of  your  Atlantic,  drawn  by  the  Moon)  : 
all  this  was  a  kind  of  unearthly  music  to  me;  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  unearthly.  It  did  not  bring  me  to  rest; 
yet  towards  rest  I  do  think:  at  all  events,  the  time  had 
come  when  I  behoved  to  quit  it  again.  I  have  been  here 
since  September:  evidently  another  little  "chapter"  or 
paragraph,  not  altogether  inert,  is  getting  forward.  But 
I  must  not  speak  of  these  things.  How  can  I  speak  of 
them  on  a  miserable  scrap  of  blue  paper?  Looking  into 
your  kind  eyes  with  my  eyes,  I  could  speak  :  not  here. 
Pity  me,  my  friend,  my  brother;  yet  hope  well  of  me: 
if  I  can  (in  all  senses)  rightly  hold  my  peace,  I  think 
much  will  yet  be  well  with  me.  SILENCE  is  the  great 

*  For   Emerson's   reply,   see  p.   261. 


42]  THOMAS    CAELYLE  229 


thing  I  worship  at  present;  almost  the  sole  tenant  of  my 
Pantheon.  Let  a  man  know  rightly  how  to  hold  his  peace. 
I  love  to  repeat  to  myself,  "Silence  is  of  Eternity."  Ah 
me,  I  think  how  I  could  rejoice  to  quit  these  jarring  dis- 
cords and  jargonings  of  Babel,  and  go  far,  far  away! 
I  do  believe,  if  I  had  the  smallest  competence  of  money 
to  get  "food  and  warmth"  with,  I  would  shake  the  mud 
of  London  from  my  feet,  and  go  and  bury  myself  in  some 
green  place,  and  never  print  any  syllable  more.  Perhaps 
it  is  better  as  it  is. 

But  quitting  this,  we  will  actually  speak  (under  favor 
of  "Silence")  one  very  small  thing;  a  pleasant  piece  of 
news.  There  is  a  man  here  called  John  Sterling  (Rev- 
erend John  of  the  Church  of  England  too),  whom  I  love 
better  than  anybody  I  have  met  with,  since  a  certain 
sky-messenger  alighted  to  me  at  Craigenputtock,  and 
vanished  in  the  Blue  again.  This  Sterling  has  written; 

.  but  what  is  far  better,  he  has  lived,  he  is  alive.     Across 

I  several   unsuitable  wrappages,   of   Church-of-Englandism 

'  and  others,  my  heart  loves  the  man.  He  is  one,  and  the 
best,  of  a  small  class  extant  here,  who,  nigh  drowning 
in  a  bla«k  wreck  of  Infidelity  (lighted  up  by  some  glare 

I  of  Radicalism  only,  now  growing  dim  too)  and  about  to 
perish,  saved  themselves  into  a  Coleridgian  Shovel-hat- 
tedness,  or  determination  to  preach,  to  preach  peace,  were 
it  only  the  spent  echo  of  a  peace  once  preached.  He  is 
still  only  about  thirty;  young;  and  I  think  will  shed  the 
shovel-hat  yet  perhaps.  Do  you  ever  read  Blade  wood? 
This  John  Sterling  is  the  "New  Contributor"  whom  Wil- 

?  son  makes  such  a  rout  about,  in  the  November  and  prior 
month :  "Crystals  from  a  "Cavern,"  &c.,  which  it  is  well 
worth  your  while  to  see.  Well,  and  what  then,  cry  you? 
— Why  then,  this  John  Sterling  has  fallen  overhead  in 
love  with  a  certain  Waldo  Emerson;  that  is  all.  He 
saw  the  little  Book  Nature  lying  here;  and,  across  a 
whole  silva  silvarum  of  prejudices,  discerned  what  was 

r  in  it;  took  it  to  his  heart, — and  indeed  into  his  pocket; 
and  has  carried  it  off  to  Madeira  with  him;  whither 
unhappily  (though  now  with  good  hope  and  expectation) 

I  the  Doctors  have  ordered  him.  This  is  the  small  piece 
of  pleasant  news,  that  two  sky-messengers  (such  they 
were  both  of  them  to  me)  have  met  and  recognized  each 


230  THOMAS    CARLYLE  ^Et.  42 


other;  and  by  God's  blessing  there  shall  one  day  be  a 
trio  of  us:  call  you  that  nothing? 

And  so  now  by  a  direct  transition  I  am  got  to  the 
Oration.  My  friend!  you  know  not  what  you  have  done 
for  me  there.  It  was  long  decades  of  years  that  I  had 
heard  nothing  but  the  infinite  jangling  and  jabbering, 
and  inarticulate  twittering  and  screeching,  and  my  soul 
had  sunk  down  sorrowfull,  and  said  there  is  no  articu- 
late speaking  then  any  more,  and  thou  art  solitary  among 
stranger-creatures,  and  lo,  out  of  the  West  comes  a 
clear  utterance,  clearly  recognizable  as  a  mans  voice, 
and  I  have  a  kinsman  and  brother:  God  be  thanked  for 
it!  I  could  have  wept  to  read  that  speech;  the  clear  high 
melody  of  it  went  tingling  through  my  heart;  I  said  to 
my  wife,  "There,  woman  !"  She  read  ;  and  returned,  and 
charges  me  to  return  for  answer,  "that  there  had  been 
nothing  met  with  like  it  since  Schiller  went  silent."  My 
brave  Emerson!  And  all  this  has  been  lying  silent, 
quite  tranquil  in  him,  these  seven  years,  and  the  "vocif- 
erous platitude"  dinning  his  ears  on  all  sides,  and  he 
quietly  answering  no  word  ;  and  a  whole  world  of  Thought 
has  silently  built  itself  in  these  calm  depths,  and,  the  day 
being  come,  says  quite  softly,  as  if  it  were  a  common 
thing,  "Yes,  I  am  here  too."  Miss  Martineau  tells  me, 
"Some  say  it  is  inspired,  some  say  it  is  mad."  Exactly 
so;  no  say  could  be  suitabler.  But  for  you,  my  dear 
friend,  I  say  and  pray  heartily:  May  God  grant  you 
strength;  for  you  have  a  fearful  work  to  do!  Fearful 
I  call  it;  and  yet  it  is  great,  and  the  greatest.  O  for 
God's  sake  keep  yourself  still  quiet!  Do  not  hasten 
to  write;  you  cannot  be  too  slow  about  it.  Give  no  ear 
to  any  man's  praise  or  censure  ;  know  that  that  is  not  it  : 
on  the  one  side  is  as  Heaven  if  you  have  strength  to 
keep  silent,  and  climb  unseen;  yet  on  the  other  side, 
yawning  always  at  one's  right-hand  and  one's  left,  is  the 
frightfulest  Abyss  and  Pandemonium!  See  Fenimore 
Cooper;  —  poor  Cooper,  he  is  down  in  it;  and  had  a 
climbing  faculty  too.  Be  steady,  be  quiet,  be  in  no 
haste;  and  God  speed  you  well!  My  space  is  done. 

And  so  adieu,  for  this  time.  You  must  write  soon 
again.  My  copy  of  the  Oration  has  never  come:  how 
is  this?  I  could  dispose  of  a  dozen  well.  —  They  say  I 


45]  THOMAS    CAKLYLE  231 

am  to  lecture  again  in  Spring,  Ay  de  mi!  The  "Book" 
is  babbled  about  sufficiently  in  several  dialects.  Eraser 
wants  to  print  my  scattered  Reviews  and  Articles;  a 
pregnant  sign.  Teufelsdrockh  to  precede.  The  man 
"screamed"  once  at  the  name  of  it  in  a  very  musical 
manner.  He  shall  not  print  a  line;  unless  he  gives  me 
money  for  it,  more  or  less.  I  have  had  enough  of  print- 
ing for  one  while, — thrown  into  "magnetic  sleep"  by  it! 
Farewell  my  brother. 

T.  CARLYLE. 

[^Et.  45] 

To  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW 
["THE  INFINITE  HUBBUB  OF  COCKNEY  THOUGHTS"] 

CHELSEA,  LONDON,,  December,  1840. 
My  dear  Sir, — 

About  two  weeks  ago  arrived  your  letter.  .  .  .  From 
you,  since  the  morning  when  we  parted  at  the  end  of 
Leigh  Hunt's  Row,  some  fitful  reports  and  notices  have 
reached  me;  one  in  particular  which,  I  remember,  fright- 
ened us  all, — the  rumour  that  you  were  in  that  fatal 
steamer  where  so  many  perished !  Happily,  this  was  soon 
contradicted;  and  about  the  same  time  there  came  an 
indistinct  message  that  a  copy  of  your  Poems  had  been 
left  for  me  at  Fraser,  the  bookseller's.  It  now  beckons 
to  me  from  one  of  my  shelves,  asking  always,  When 
wilt  thou  have  a  cheerful  vacant  day?  .  .  . 

Alas,  my  dear  sir,  what  a  wretched  scrawl  is  this,  with 
the  worst  of  pens;  time,  composure,  and  all  elements  of 
social  intercourse  entirely  denied  me!  It  is  a  hideous, 
immeasurable  treadmill,  this  smoky  soul-confusing  Baby- 
lon; I  address  one  prayer  to  the  heavens  that  I  were 
well  out  of  it,  before  it  take  the  life  from  me !  Happy 
you  who  sit  in  Cambridge,  Old  or  New,  with  clear  air 
around  you,  with  liberty  to  commune  with  your  own 
thoughts,  not  compulsion  to  commune  with  the  infinite 
hubbub  of  Cockney  thoughts  and  no-thoughts,  which. — 
mag  der  Teufel  holenf  But,  patience!  we  must  have 
patience,  and  shuffle  the  cards. 

Adieu,  dear  sir,  and  Good  be  with  you  ever. 

Yours  most  truly, 

T.  CARLYLE. 


|yEt.21]         JANE    WELSH    CAKLYLE 

1801-1866 
To    THOMAS    CARLYLE 

["YOUR     FRIENDSHIP     RESTORED     ME     TO     MYSELI'"] 

HADDINGTON,  llth  November,   1822. 
My  dear  Friend, — 

If  ever  I  succeed  in  distinguishing  myself  above  the 
common  herd  of  little  Misses,  thine  will  be  the  honour 
of  my  success.  Eepeatedly  have  your  salutary  counsels 
and  little  well-timed  flatteries  roused  me  from  inactivity 
when  my  own  reason  was  of  no  avail.  Our  meeting  forms 
a  memorable  epoch  in  my  history;  for  my  acquaintance 
with  you  has  from  its  very  commencement  powerfully 
influenced  my  character  and  life.  When  you  saw  me 
for  the  first  time,  I  was  wretched  beyond  description: 
grief  at  the  loss  of  the  only  being*  I  ever  loved  with  my 
whole  soul  had  weakened  my  body  and  mind;  distraction 
of  various  kinds  had  relaxed  my  habits  of  industry;  I 
had  no  counsellor  that  could  direct  me,  no  friend  that 
understood  me;  the  pole-star  of  my  life  was  lost,  and 
the  world  looked  a  dreary  blank.  Without  plan,  hope,  or 
aim,  I  had  lived  two  years  when  my  good  Angel  sent  you 
hither.  I  had  never  heard  the  language  of  talent  and 
genius  but  from  my  Father's  lips;  I  had  thought  that 
I  should  never  hear  it  more.  You  spoke  like  him;  your 
eloquence  awoke  in  my  soul  the  slumbering  admirations 
arid  ambitions  that  His  first  kindled  there.  I  wept  to 
think  the  mind  he  had  cultivated  with  such  anxious, 
unremitting  pains,  was  running  to  desolation;  and  .1 
returned  with  renewed  strength  and  ardour  to  the  life 
that  he  had  destined  me  to  lead.  But  in  my  studies  I 
have  neither  the  same  pleasures,  nor  the  same  motives 
as  formerly:  I  am  alone,  and  no  one  loves  me  better 
for  my  industry.  This  solitude  together  with  distrust 
of  my  own  talents  despair  of  ennobling  my  character, 
and  the  discouragement  I  meet  with  in  devoting  myself 
to  a  literary  life,  would,  I  believe,  have  oftener  than  once 
thrown  me  into  a  state  of  helpless  despondency,  had  not 
your  friendship  restored  me  to  myself  by  supplying  (in 

*Her   father. 

232 


Mb.  22]  JANE    WELSH    CAKLYLE  233 

as  much  as  they  can  ever  be  supplied)  the  counsels  and 
incitements  I  have  lost. — You  see  I  am  not  insensible 
to  the  value  of  your  friendship,  or  likely  to  throw  it 
away,  tho'  you  have  sometimes  charged  me  with  incon- 
stancy and  caprice. 

[Mt.  22] 

To    THOMAS    CARLYLE 
[RECONCILIATION  ;    AVOIDING    CALLERS] 

HADDINGTON,  Sunday,  14  March,  1824. 
Dearest, — 

I  looked  for  your  Letter  on  Monday,  as  my  reward  for 
a  week's  diligence,  and  I  was  not  disappointed.  It  is  very 
good  of  you  to  write  me  such  charming  long  Letters 
when  you  are  over  head  and  ears  in  business.  Indeed 
I  can  never  wonder  enough  at  your  kindness  to  me  in 
all  things;  it  is  really  very  affecting!  God  grant  that 
some  day  or  other,  I  may  deserve  it!  This  hope  is  the 
only  thing  that  keeps  me  from  quarrelling  with  myself 
outright,  when  I  think  of  all  my  demerits  in  the  time 
past.  I  declare  I  am  very  much  of  Mr.  Kemp's  way  of 
thinking,  that  "certain  persons  are  possessed  of  Devils 
even  in  the  present  time!"  Nothing  less  than  a  Devil 
(I  am  sure)  could  have  tempted  me  to  torment  you  and 
myself,  as  I  did  on  that  unblessed  day.  Woe  to  me  then, 
if  I  had  had  any  other  than  the  most  constant  and  gener- 
ous of  mortal  men  to  deal  with.  Blessings  on  your 
equanimity  and  magnanimity!  You  are  a  dear  good 
patient  Genius.  You  are  sure  you  forgive  me  ?  forgive 
me  in  the  very  core  of  your  heart?  I  would  rather  pay 
you  another  dozen  of  shillings  than  that  you  should  bear 
me  the  smallest  grudge. 

For  the  first  time  these  great  many  months  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  tell  you  how  I  have  been  living.  For  two 
whole  weeks  I  have  rigidly  adhered  to  my  new  system. 
It  will  answer  well  I  find.  By  the  help  of  the  Lord  I 
have  been  upon  my  feet  every  morning  by  half  after 
seven,  and  throughout  the  day  I  have  not  suffered  any- 
thing or  anybody  to  interfere  with  my  tasks.  Indeed  it 
will  be  all  my  own  fault  if  I  relapse  into  idleness  in 
my  present  circumstances :  for  there  are  very  few  ob- 


234  JANE    WELSH    CAKLYLE  [^Et.  22 

stacles    and   no    temptations   at    all,    in   the   way   of   my. 
industry.  .  .  . 

To  avoid  those  who  are  still  in  the  practice  of  break- 
ing in  upon  us  before  one  o'clock,  I  have  excogitated  an 
expedient  for  which  I  think  I  deserve  some  credit.  While 
my  Mother  was  colded  we  got  into  a  way  of  breakfasting 
in  her  dressingroom,  and  finding  that  this  arrangement, 
by  which  two  pairs  of  stairs  and  a  great  many  wooden 
doors  are  interposed  between  me  and  my  enemies,  con- 
tributed very  considerably  to  my  security,  I  managed  to 
have  it  continued  after  my  Mother  got  well  again.  I 
was  still  liable,  however,  to  be  sent  for  to  the  diningroom, 
and  must  then  either  have  complied  or  have  irritated  my 
Mother  by  a  point  blank  refusal.  The  way  I  have  fallen 
upon  to  avoid  this  inconvenience,  is  the  simplest  that 
can  well  be  imagined;  and  nevertheless  it  has  hitherto 
proved  effectual.  When.  I  get  up  in  the  morning  I 
merely  dash  the  sleep  out  of  my  eyes  with  cold  water, 
comb  up  my  hair,  and  whip  on  my  dressinggown,  taking 
care  never  to  dress  myself  till  after  one  o'clock.  As  my 
Mother  discovers  no  deeper  motive  in  this  proceeding 
than  laziness  or  perhaps  economy,  she  does  not  at  all 
object  to  it.  And  now,  observe,  when  anyone  comes,  she 
knows  well  enough  that  I  am  not  fit  to  be  seen,  and  so 
does  not  make  any  attempt  to  produce  me. — My  paper  is 
almost  filled,  and  I  have  still  a  great  many  things  to 
say  to  you;  but  as  my  affection  for  you  is  great,  I  cannot 
find  in  my  heart  to  cross  such  writing  as  this,  and  will 
keep  them  all  till  another  opportunity.  When  shall  I 
have  more  of  Meister?  I  do  not  know  yet  what  to  think 
of  it.  I  cannot  separate  your  interest  in  it  from  Goethe's 
or  my  own  opinion  of  it  from  what  is  likely  to  be  the 
opinion  of  the  public.  I  wish  however,  it  had  not  been 
so — queer.  My  Mother  sends  her  best  regards.  She  was 
highly  pleased  with  your  last  Letter.  Depend  upon  it, 
my  Friend,  it  is  for  the  good  of  us  both  that  she  is 
admitted  into  our  correspondence.  So  remember!  no 
darlings  or  anything  of  that  nature, — in  English;  but 
never  mind  that:  my  heart  supplies  them  for  you,  wher- 
ever they  can  be  crammed  in.  When  will  you  write? 
On  Tuesday,  at  farthest. — God  bless  you  ever ! 
Devotedly  yours,  JANE 


Mt.  22]  JANE    WELSH    CARLYLE  235 

[>Et.  22] 

To   THOMAS    CARLYLE 
["HOPE  DEFERRED";  LORD  BYRON] 

HADDINGTON,  20th  May,  1824. 

In  the  name  of  Heaven  why  don't  you  write  to  me  ? 
I  have  waited  day  after  day  in  the  utmost  impatience; 
and  hope  deferred  has  not  only  made  my  heart  sick,  but 
is  like  to  drive  me  out  of  my  judgement. 

For  Godsake  write  the  instant  this  reaches  you,  if  you 
have  not  done  it  before.  I  shall  learn  no  lesson,  settle 
to  no  occupation,  till  I  have  your  Letter.  Wretch!  You 
cannot  conceive  what  anxiety  I  am  in  about  you.  One 
moment  I  imagine  you  ill  or  in  trouble  of  some  sort; 
the  next  tired  of  me;  the  next  something  else  as  bad. 
In  short  there  is  no  end  to  my  imaginings. 

I  do  not  think  that  in  the  whole  course  of  our  corre- 
spondence so  long  an  interval  has  ever  elapsed  before: 
never  but  when  we  quarrelled — and  this  time  there  is 
no  quarrel!  To  add  to  my  perplexities,  there  have  I  had 
a  Letter  from  that  stupendous  Ass  the  Orator,*  telling 
me  such  nonsensical  things;  and  among  the  rest,  that  he 
is  full  of  joy  because  Thomas  Carlyle  is  to  be  with  him 
this  month!  Can  he  mean  you?  This  month!  and 
twenty  days  of  it  already  past  and  gone!  The  man  must 
have  been  delirious  when  he  wrote  such  an  impossible 
story.  You  can  never,  never  mean  to  be  in  London  this 
month!  You  promised  to  be  here  before  you  went,  in 
words  that  it  would  be  impiety  to  doubt.  I  have  looked 
forward  to  your  coming  for  weeks.  You  cannot  dream 
of  disappointing  me! 

What  I  would  give  to  be  assured  this  moment  that 
excessive  occupation  is  the  sole  cause  of  your  present 
neglectf ulness :  that  "devils"  are  dunning  you  for  the 
rest  of  your  book,  and  that  you  are  merely  giving  your- 
self all  to  Meister  just  now  that  you  may  the  sooner 
be  all  for  me.  Is  it  not  hard?  This  is  the  only  com- 
fortable conjecture  I  can  form  to  explain  your  silence; 
and  yet  I  can  never  believe  in  it  for  more  than  a  minute 
at  a  time.  Were  I  but  certain  that  all  is  really  well, 

*  Edward   Irving. 


236  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE  [^t.  25 

what  a  Devil  of  a  rage  I  would  be  in  with  you!  Write, 
write. — I  will  tell  you  about  my  visit  to  London,  then; 
I  have  no  heart  for  it  now.  What  an  idiot  I  was  ever 
to  think  that  man  so  estimable!  But  I  am  done  with 
his  Preachership  now  and  forever. 

And  Byron  is  dead!  I  was  told  it  all  at  once  in  a 
roomful  of  people.  My  God,  if  they  had  said  that  the 
sun  or  the  moon  had  gone  out  of  the  heavens,  it  could 
not  have  struck  me  with  the  idea  of  a  more  awful  and 
dreary  blank  in  the  creation  than  the  words,  "Byron  is 
dead!"  I  have  felt  quite  cold  and  dejected  ever  since: 
all  my  thoughts  have  been  fearful  and  dismal.  I  wish 
you  was  come. 

Yours  forever  affectionately, 

JANE  WELSH. 
[^Et.  25] 

To  MRS.  GEORGE  WELSH 

["ONE  WHO  HOLDS  HIS  PATENT  OF  NOBILITY  FROM  ALMIGHTY 
GOD"] 

TEMPLAND,  1st  October,  1826. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Welsh, — 

...  It  were  no  news  to  tell  you  what  a  momentous 
matter  I  have  been  busied  with;  "not  to  know  that  would 
argue  yourself  unknown."  For  a  marriage  is  a  topic 
suited  to  the  capacities  of  all  living;  and,  in  this,  as  in 
every  known  instance,  has  been  made  the  most  of.  But. 
for  as  much  breath  as  has  been  wasted  on  "my  Situation" 
I  have  my  own  doubts  whether  they  have  given  you  any 
right  idea  of  it.  They  would  tell  you,  I  should  suppose, 
first  and  foremost,  that  my  Intended  is  poor,  (for  that  it 
requires  no  great  depth  of  sagacity  to  discover),  and,  in 
the  next  place,  most  likely,  indulge  in  some  criticisms 
scarce  flattering,  on  his  birth  (the  more  likely,  if  their 
own  birth  happened  to  be  mean  or  doubtful) ;  and,  if 
they  happened  to  be  vulgar-fine  people  with  disputed 
pretensions  to  good  looks,  they  would,  to  a  certainty,  set 
him  down  as  unpolished  and  ill-looking.  But  a  hundred 
chances  to  one,  they  would  not  tell  you  he  is  among  the 
cleverest  men  of  his  day;  and  not  the  cleverest  only  but 
the  most  enlightened!  that  he  possesses  all  the  qualities 
I  deem  essential  in  my  Husband,  a  warm  true  heart  to 


-Et.  44]  JANE    WELSH   CAKLYLE  237 

love  me,  a  towering  intellect  to  command  me,  and  a  spirit 
of  fire  to  be  the  guiding  star  of  my  life.  Excellence  of 
this  sort  always  requires  some  degree  of  superiority  in 
those  who  duly  appreciate  it:  in  the  eyes  of  the  canaille — 
poor  soulless  wretches! — it  is  mere  foolishness,  and  it  is 
only  the  canaille  who  babble  about  other  people's  affairs. 
Such  then  is  this  future  Husband  of  mine;  not  a  great* 
man  according  to  the  most  common  sense  of  the  word, 
but  truly  great  in  its  natural,  proper  sense;  a  scholar,  a 
poet,  a  philosopher,  a  wise  and  noble  man,  one  who  holds 
his  patent  of  nobility  from  Almighty  God,  and  whose 
high  stature  of  manhood  is  not  to  be  measured  by  the 
inch-rule  of  Lilliputs! — Will  you  like  him?  No  matter 
whether  you  do  or  not- — since  I  like  him  in  the  deepest 
part  of  my  soul.  I  would  invite  you  to  .my  wedding,  if 
I  meant  to  invite  any  one;  but,  to  my  taste,  such  cere- 
monies cannot  be  too  private:  besides  by  making  dis- 
tinctions among  my  relatives  on  the  occasion,  I  should 
be  sure  to  give  offence;  and,  by  God's  blessing,  I  will 
have  no  one  there  who  does  not  feel  kindly  both  towards 
him  and  me.  .  .  . 


I>Et.  44] 

To   THOMAS   CARLYLE 
[AN  EVENING  PARTY] 

LIVERPOOL,  Saturday,  Aug.  16,  1845. 
Dearest, — 

I  never  know  whether  a  letter  is  welcomer  when  it 
arrives  after  having  been  impatiently  waited  for,  or  like 
yesterday's,  "quite  promiscuously,"  when  I  was  standing 
"on  the  broad  basis"  of,  "Blessed  are  tney  who  do  not 
hope,  for  they  shall  not  be  disappointed!"  I  assure  you 
I  am  the  only  person  obliged  by  your  writing;  it  makes 
a  very  palpable  difference  in  my  amiability  throughout 
the  day  whether  I  have  a  letter  to  begin  it  with. 

Last  night  we  went,  according  to  programme,  to  Mrs. 

A 's,  and  "it  is  but  fair  to  state"  that  the  drive  there 

and  back  in  the  moonlight  tvas  the  best  of  it.  The  party 
did  me  no  ill,  however;  it  was  not  a  Unitarian  crush  like 
the  last,  but  adapted  to  the  size  of  the  room:  select, 


238  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE  [^Et.  44 

moreover,  and  with  the  crowning  grace  of  an  open  win- 
dow. There  was  an  old  gentleman  who  did  the  impossible 
to  inspire  me  with  a  certain  respect;  Y—  -  they  called 
him,  and  his  glory  consists  in  owning  the  Prince's  Park, 
and  throwing  it  open  to  "poors."  Oh,  what  a  dreadful 
little  old  man!  He  plied  me  with  questions,  and  sug- 
gestions about  you,  till  I  was  within  a  trifle  of  putting 
T<my  finger  in  the  pipy  o'  'im."  "How  did  Mr.  Carlyle 
treat  Oliver  Cromwell's  crimes?"  "His  what?"  said  I. 
"The  atrocities  he  exercised  on  the  Irish."  "Oh,  you 
mean  massacring  a  garrison  or  two?  All  that  is  treated 
very  briefly."  "But  Mr.  Carlyle  must  feel  a  just  horror 
of  that."  "Horror?  Oh,  none  at  all,  I  assure  you!  He 
regards  it  as  the  only  means  under  the  circumstances  to 
save  bloodshed."  The  little  old  gentleman  bounced  back 
in  his  chair,  and  spread  out  his  two  hands,  like  a  duck 
about  to  swim,  while  there  burst  from  his  lips  a  groan 
that  made  everyone  look  at  us.  What  had  I  said  to 

their  Mr.  Y ?    By-and-by  my  old  gentleman  returned 

to  the  charge.  "Mr.  Carlyle  must  be  feeling  much  .de- 
lighted about  the  Academical  Schools  ?"  "Oh,  no !  he  has 
been  so  absorbed  in  his  own  work  lately  that  he  has  not 
been  at  leisure  to  be  delighted  aJbout  anything?"  "But, 
madam!  a  man  may  attend  to  his  own  work,  and  attend 
at  the  same  time  to  questions  of  great  public  interest." 
"Do  you  think  so?  I  don't."  Another  bounce  on  the 
chair.  Then,  with  a  sort  of  awe,  as  of  a  "demon  more 
wicked  than  your  wife":  "Do  you  not  think,  madam, 
that  more  good  might  be  done  by  taking  up  the  history 
of  the  actual  time  than  of  past  ages?  Such  a  time  as 
this,  so  full  of  improvements  in  arts  and  sciences,  the 
whole  face  of  Europe  getting  itself  changed!  Suppose 
Mr.  Carlyle  should  bring  out  a  yearly  volume  about  all 

this  ?"    This  was  Y 's  last  flight  of  eloquence  with  me, 

for  catching  the  eyes   of   a  lady   (your  Miss  L of 

"The  Gladiator")  fixed  on  me  with  the  most  ludicrous 
expression  of  sympathy,  I  fairly -burst  out  laughing  till 
the  tears  ran  down;  and  when  I  had  recovered  myself, 
the  old  gentleman  had  turned  for  compensation  to  J. 

M .     J.  had  reasons  for  being  civil  to  him  which  I 

had  not,  Mr.  Y—  -  being  his  landlord;  but  he  seemed 
to  be  answering  him  in  his  sleep,  while  his  waking 


-ffit.  44]  JANE    WELSH   CARLYLE  239 

thoughts  were  intent  on  an  empty  chair  betwixt  Geral- 
dine*  and  me,  and  eventually  he  made  it  his  own.  As 

if  to  deprecate  my  confounding  him  with  these  Y 's, 

he  immediately  began  to  speak  in  the  most  disrespectful 
manner  of  Mechanics'  Institutes  "and  all  that  sort  of 
thing" ;  and  4then  we  got  on  these  eternal  Vestiges  of 
Creation,  which  he  termed,  rather  happily,  "animated 
mud."  Geraldine  and  Mrs.  Paulet  were  wanting  to  en- 
gage him  in  a  doctrinal  discussion,  which  they  are  ex- 
tremely fond  of:  "Look  at  Jane,"  suddenly  exclaimed 
Geraldine,  "she  is  quizzing  us  in  her  own  mind.  You 

must  know"  (to  M )  "we  cannot  get  Jane  to  care  a 

bit  about  doctrines."  "I  should  think  not,"  said  M , 

with  great  vivacity;  "Mrs.  Carlyle  is  the  most  concrete 
woman  that  I  have  seen  for  a  long  while."  "Oh,"  said 
Geraldine,  "she  puts  all  her  wisdom  into  practice,  and 

so  never  gets  into  scrapes."  "Yes,"  said  M in  a  tone 

"significant  o£  much,"  "to  keep  out  of  doctrines  is  the 
only  way  to  keep  out  of  scrapes!"  Was  not  that  a 
creditable  speech  in  a  Unitarian? 

Miss  L is  a  frank,  rather  agreeable,  woman  forty 

or  thereabouts,  who  looks  as  if  she  had  gone  through  a 
good  deal  of  hardship ;  not  "a  domineering  genius"  by 
any  means,  but  with  sense  enough  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses, such  as  admiring  you  to  the  skies,  and  Cromwell 
too.  The  rest  of  the  people  were  "chiefly  musical,  Mr. 

Carlyle."  Mrs.  A is  very  much  fallen  off  in  her 

singing  since  .last  year;  I  suppose,  from  squalling  so 
much  to  her  pupils.  She  is  to  dine  here  to-day,  and 

ever  so  many  people  besides,  to  meet  these  R 's. 

Doubtless  we  shall  be  "borne  through  with  an  honour- 
able throughbearing ;"  but  quietness  is  best. 

And  now  I  must  go  and  walk,  while  the  sun  shines. 
Our  weather  here  is  very  showery  and  cold.  I  heard  a 
dialogue  the  other  morning  betwixt  Mr.  Paulet  and  his 
factotum,  which  amused  me  much.  The  factotum  was 
mowing  the  lawn.  Mr.  Paulet  threw  up  the  breakfast- 
room  window,  and  called  to  him :  "Knolles !  how  looks  my 
wheat?"  "Very  distressed  indeed,  sir!"  "Are  we  much 
fallen  down?"  "No,  sir,  but  we  are  black,  very  black." 

*  Geraldine  Jewsbury,  the  romatic  friend  of  Mrs.  Carlyle,  who  fur- 
nished Froude  with  so.me  of  his  doubtful  material. 


240  JANE    WELSH    CAKLYLE  [Mt.  44 

"All  this  rain,  I  should  have  thought,  would  have  made 
us  fall  down?"  "Where  the  crops  are  heavy  they  are  a 
good  deal  laid,  sir,  but  it  would  take  a  vast  of  rain  to 
lay  us!"  "Oh,  then,  Knolles,  it  is  because  we  are  not 
powerful  enough  that  we  are  not  fallen  down?"  "Sir?" 
"It  is  because  we  are  not  rich  enough?"  "Beg  pardon, 
sir,  but  I  don't  quite  understand?"  Mr.  P&ulet  shut  the 
window  and  returned  to  his  breakfast.  God  keep  you, 
dear.  Your  own 

J.  0. 

[  J2t.  44] 

To   THOMAS   CARLYLE 
[DICKENS  AS  BOBADIL;  TENNYSON] 

Tuesday,  Sept.  23,  1845. 

"Nothink"  for  you  to-day  in  the  shape  of  inclosure, 
unless  I  inclose  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Paulet  to  myself, 
which  you  will  find  as  "entertaining"  to  the  full  as  any 
of  mine.  And  nothink  to  be  told  either,  except  all  about 
the  play;  and  upon  my  honour,  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  had 
penny-a-liner  genius  enough,  this  cold  morning,  to  make 
much  entertainment  out  of  that.  Enough  to  clasp  one's 
hand,  and  exclaim,  like  Helen  before  the  Virgin  and 
Child,  "Oh,  how  expensive!"  But  "how  did  the  creatures 
get  through  it?"  Too  well;  and  not  well  enough!  The 
public  theatre,  scenes  painted  by  Stansfield,  costumes 
"rather  exquisite,"  together  with  the  certain  amount  of 
proficiency  in  the  amateurs,  overlaid  all  idea  of  private 
theatricals;  and.  considering  it  as  public  theatricals,  the 
acting  was  "most  insipid,"  not  one  performer  among 
them  that  could  be  called  good,  and  none  that  could  be 
called  absolutely  bad.  Douglas  Jerrold  seemed  to  me  the 
best,  the  oddity  of  his  appearance  greatly  helping  him; 
he  played  Stephen  the  Cull  [Gull].  Forster  as  Kitely 
and  Dickens  as  Captain  Bobadil  were  much  on  a  par; 
but  Forster  preserved  his  identity,  even  through  his  loft- 
iest flights  of  Macreadyism ;  while  poor  little  Dickens,  all 
painted  in  black  and  red,  and  affecting  the  voice  of  a 
man  of  six  feet,  would  have  been  unrecognizable  for  the 
mother  that  bore  him !  On  the  whole,  to  get  up  the  small- 
est interest  in  the  thing,  one  needed  to  be  always  re- 


Mi.  44]  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE  241 

minding  oneself:  "all  these  actors  were  once  men!"  and 
will  be  men  again  to-morrow  morning.  The  greatest  won- 
der for  me  was  how  they  had  contrived  to  get  together 
some  six  or  seven  hundred  ladies  and  gentlemen  (judg- 
ing from  the  clothes)  at  this  season  of  the  year;  and 
all  utterly  unknown  to  me,  except  some  half-dozen. 

So  long  as  I  kept  my  seat  in  the  dress  circle  I  recog- 
nized only  Mrs.  Macready  (in  one  of  the  four  private 
boxes),  and  in  my  nearer  neighbourhood  Sir  Alexander 
and  Lady  Gordon.  But  in  the  interval  betwixt  the  play 
and  the  farce  I  took  a  notion  to  make  my  way  to  Mrs. 
Macready.  John,  of  course,  declared  the  thing  "clearly 
impossible,  no  use  trying  it;"  but  a  servant  of  the  thea- 
tre, overhearing  our  debate,  politely  offered  to  escort  me 
where  I  wished;  and  then  John,  having  no  longer  any 
difficulties  to  surmount,  followed,  to  have  his  share  in 
what  advantages  might  accrue  from  the  change.  Passing 
through  a  long  dim  passage,  I  came  on  a  tall  man  leant 
to  the  wall,  with  his  head  touching  the  ceiling  like  a 
caryatid,  to  all  appearance  asleep,  or  resolutely  trying  it 
under  most  unfavourable  circumstances.  "Alfred  Tenny- 
son!" I  exclaimed  in  joyful  surprise.  "Well!"  said  he, 
taking  the  hand  I  held  out  to  him,  and  forgetting  to  let 
it  go  again.  "I  did  not  know  you  were  in  town,"  said  I. 
"I  should  like  to  know  who  you  are,"  said  he;  "I  know 
that  I  know  you,  but  I  cannot  tell  your  name."  And 
I  had  actually  to  name  myself  to  him.  Then  he  woke  up 
in  good  earnest,  and  said  he  had  been  meaning  to  come  to 
Chelsea.  "But  Carlyle  is  in  Scotland,"  I  told  him  with 
due  humility.  "So  I  heard  from  Spedding  already,  but 
I  asked  Spedding,  would  he  go  with  me  to  see  Mrs. 
Carlyle?  and  he  said  he  would."  I  told  him  if  he  really 
meant  to  come,  he  had  better  not  wait  for  backing,  under 
the  present  circumstances;  and  then  pursued  my  way  to 
the  Macreadys'  box;  where  I  was  received  by  William 
(whom  I  had  not  divined)  with  a  "Gracious  heavens!" 
and  spontaneous  dramatic  start,  which  made  me  all  but 
answer,  "Gracious  heavens !"  and  start  dramatically  in 
my  turn.  And  then  I  was  kissed  all  round  by  his  women ; 

and  poor  Nell  Gwyn,  Mrs.  M G ,  seemed  almost 

pushed  by  the  general  enthusiasm  on  the  distracted  idea 
of  kissinor  me  also!  Thev  would  not  let  me  return  to 


242  JANE    WELSH    CARLYLE  [^Et.  44 

my  stupid  place,  but  put  in  a  third  chair  for  me  in  front 
of  their  box;  "and  the  latter  end  of  that  woman  was 
better  than  the  beginning."  Macready  was  in  perfect 
ecstacies  over  the  "Life  of  Schiller,"  spoke  of  it  with 
tears  in  his  eyes.  As  "a  sign  of  the  times,"  I  may  men- 
tion that  in  the  box  opposite  sat  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire, with  Payne  Collier!  Next  to  us  were  D'Orsay  and 
"Milady!" 

Between  eleven  and  twelve  it  was  all  over — and  the 
practical  result?  Eight-and-sixpence  for  a  fly,  and  a 
headache  for  twenty-four  hours!  I  went  to  bed  as  wear- 
ied as  a  little  woman  could  be,  and  dreamt  that  I  was 
plunging  through  a  quagmire  seeking  some  herbs  which 
were  to  save  the  life  of  Mrs.  Maurice;  and  that  Maurice 
was  waiting  at  home  for  them  in  an  agony  of  impatience, 
while  I  could  not  get  out  of  the  mud-water! 

Craik  arrived  next  evening  (Sunday),  to  make  his 
compliments.  Helen  had  gone  to  visit  numbers.  John 
was  smoking  in  the  kitchen.  I  was  lying  on  the  sofa, 
headachey,  leaving  Craik  to  put  himself  to  the  chief 
expenditure  of  wind,  when  a  cab  drove  up.  Mr.  Stra- 
chey?  No.  Alfred  Tennyson  alone!  Actually,  by  a 
superhuman  effort  of  volition  he  had  put  himself  into  a 
cab,  nay,  brought  himself  away  from  a  dinner  party,  and 
was  there  to  smoke  and  talk  with  me! — by  myself — me! 
But  no  such  blessedness  was  in  store  for  him.  Craik 
prosed,  and  John  babbled  for  his  entertainment ;  and  I, 
whom  he  had  come  to  see,  got  scarcely  any  speech  with 
him.  The  exertion,  however,  of  having  to  provide  him 
with  tea,  through  my  own  unassisted  ingenuity  (Helen 
being  gone  for  the  evening)  drove  away  my  headache; 
also  perhaps  a  little  feminine  vanity  at  having  inspired 
such  a  man  with  the  energy  to  take  a  cab  on  his  own 
responsibility,  and  to  throw  himself  on  providence  for 
getting  away  again!  He  stayed  till  eleven,  Craik  sitting 

him  out,   as  he  sat  out  Lady  H ,  and  would  sit  out 

the  Virgin  Mary  should  he  find  her  here.  .  .  . 

Yours, 
J.  C. 


^Et.  51]  JANE    WELSH    CARLYLE  243 

[-Et.  51] 

To    THOMAS    CARLYLE 
[PLUMBERS,  CARPENTERS,  AND  BRICKLAYERS] 

5  CHEYNE  Row: 
Friday  night,  July  24,  1852. 

Oh,  my!  I  wonder  if  I  shall  hear  to-morrow  morning, 
and  what  I  shall  hear !  Perhaps  that  somebody  drove  you 
wild  with  snoring,  and  that  you  killed  him  and  threw 
him  in  the  sea !  Had  the  boatmen  upset  the  boat  on  the 
way  back,  and  drowned  little  Nero  and  me,  on  purpose, 
I  could  hardly  have  taken  it  ill  of  them,  seeing  they 
"were  but  men,  of  like  passions  with  yourself."  But  on 
the  contrary,  they  behaved  most  civilly  to  us,  offered  to 
land  us  at  any  pier  we  liked,  and  said  not  a  word  to 
me  about  the  sixpence,  so  I  gave  it  to  them  as  a  free 
gift.  We  came  straight  home  in  the  steamer,  where 
Nero  went  immediately  to  sleep,  and  I  to  work. 

Miss  Wilson  called  in  the  afternoon,  extremely  agree- 
able; and  after  tea  Ballantyne  came,  and  soon  after 
Kingsley.  Ballantyne  gave  me  the  ten  pounds,  and 
Kingsley  told  me  about  his  wife — that  she  was  "the 
adorablest  wife  man  ever  had!"  Neither  of  these  men 
stayed  long.  I  went  to  bed  at  eleven,  fell  asleep  at 
three,  and  rose  at  six.  The  two  plumbers  were  rushing 
about  the  kitchen  with  boiling  lead;  an  additional  car- 
penter was  waiting  for  my  directions  about  "the  cup- 
board" at  the  bottom  of  the  kitchen  stair.  The  two  usual 
carpenters  were  hammering  at  the  floor  and  windows  of 
the  drawing-room.  The  bricklayer  rushed  in,  in  plain 
clothes,  measured  the  windows  for  stone  sills  (I},  rushed 
out  again,  and  came  no  more  that  day.  After  breakfast 
I  fell  to  clearing  out  the  front  bedroom  for  the  brick- 
layers, removing  everything  into  your  room.  When  I 
had  just  finished,  a  wild-looking  stranger,  with  a  paper 
cap,  rushed  up  the  stairs,  three  steps  at  a  time,  and  told 
me  he  was  "sent  by  Mr.  Morgan  to  get  on  with  the 
painting  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  bedroom  during  his  absence!." 
I  was  so  taken  by  surprise  that  I  did  not  feel  at  first 
to  have  any  choice  in  the  matter,  and  told  him  he  must 
wait  two  hours  till  all  that  furniture  was  taken — some- 
where. 


244  JANE    WELSH    CAKLYLE  [^t.  51 

Then  I  came  in  mind  that  the  window  and  doors  had 
to  be  repaired,  and  a  little  later  that  the  floor  was  to  be 
taken  up!  Being  desirous,  however,  not  to  refuse  the 
good  the  gods  had  provided  me,  I  told  the  man  he  might 
begin  to  paint  in  my  bedroom ;  but  there  also  some 
woodwork  was  unfinished. 

The  carpenters  thought  they  could  get  it  ready  by 
next  morning.  So  I  next  cleared  myself  a  road  into 
your  bedroom,  and  fell  to  moving  all  the  things  of  mine 
up  there  also.  Certainly  no  lady  in  London  did  such 
a  hard  day's  work.  Not  a  soul  came  to  interrupt  me  till 
night,  when  stalked  in  for  half-an-hour,  uncom- 
monly dull.  "It  must  have  taken  a  great  deal  to  make 
a  man  so  dull  as  that!"  I  never  went  out  till  ten  at 
night,  when  I  took  a  turn  or  two  on  Battersea  Bridge, 
without  having  my  throat  cut. 

My  attempts  at  sleeping  last  night  were  even  more 
futile  than  the  preceding  one.  A  dog  howled  repeatedly, 
near  hand,  in  that  awful  manner  which  is  understood  to 
prognosticate  death,  which,  together  with  being  "in  a  new 
position/'  kept  me  awake  till  five.  And  after  six  it  was 
impossible  to  lie,  for  the  plumbers  were  in  the  garret, 
and  the  bricklayers  in  the  front  bedroom!  Mr.  Morgan 
came  after  breakfast,  and  settled  to  take  up  the  floor  in 
your  bedroom  at  once.  So  to-day  all  the  things  have  had 
to  be  moved  out  again  down  to  my  bedroom,  and  the 
painter  put  off;  and  to-night  I  am  to  "pursue  sleep  under 
difficulties"  in  my  own  bed  again.  They  got  on  fast 
enough  with  the  destructive  part.  The  chimney  is  down 
and  your  floor  half  off! 

After  tea  I  "cleaned  myself,"  and  walked  up  to  see 
Miss  Farrar.  She  and  her  sister  were  picnicking  at 
Hampton  Court;  but  the  old  mother  was  very  glad  of 
me,  walked  half-way  back  with  me,  and  gave  me  ice  at 
Gunter's  in  passing.  I  am  to  have  a  dinner-tea  with 
them  next  Wednesday.  And  to-morrow  I  am  to  give  the 
last  sitting  for  my  picture,  and  take  tea  at  Mrs.  Sketch- 
ley's.  And  now  I  must  go  to  bed  again — more's  the  pity. 

I  shall  leave  this  open,  in  case  of  a  letter  from  you  in 
the  morning. 


-fit.  55]  JANE    WELSH   CARLYLE  245 

Saturday. 

Thanks  God  too  for  some  four  hours  of  sleep  last  night. 
I  don't  mind  the  uproar  a  bit  now  that  you  are  out  of  it. 

Love  to  Mr.  Erskine;  tell  him  to  write  to  me. 

Ever   yours, 
l&t.  55]  J-  W.  C. 

To  A  FRIEND 
[ON  BAKING  BREAD] 

January  11,  1857. 

...  So  many  talents  are  wasted,  so  many  enthusi- 
asms turned  to  smoke,  so  many  lives  split  for  want  of  a 
little  patience  and  endurance,  for  want  of  understanding 
and  laying  to  heart  what  you  have  so  well  expressed  in 
your  verses — the  meaning  of  the  Present, — for  want  of 
recognizing  that  it  is  not  the  greatness  or  littleness  of 
"the  duty  nearest  hand,"  but  the  spirit  in  which  one  does 
it,  that  makes  one's  doing  noble  or  mean!  I  can't  think 
how  people  who  have  any  natural  ambition  and  any  sense 
of  power  in  them,  escape  going  mad  in  a  world  like  this 
without  the  recognition  of  that.  I  know  I  was  very  near 
mad  when  I  found  it  out  for  myself  (as  one  has  to  find 
out  for  one's  self  everything  that  is  to  be  of  any  real 
practical  use  to  one). 

Shall  I  tell  you  how  it  came  into  my  head?  Perhaps 
it  may  be  of  comfort  to  you  in  similar  moments  of  fa- 
tigue and  disgust.  I  had  gone  with  my  husband  to  live 
on  a  little  estate  of  peat  bog  that  had  descended  to  me 
all  the  way  down  from  John  Welsh,  the  Covenanter,  who 
married  a  daughter  of  John  Knox.  That  didn't,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  make  me  feel  Craigenputtock  a  whit  less 
of  a  peat  bog,  and  a  most  dreary,  untoward  place  to  live 
at.  In  fact,  it  was  sixteen  miles  distant  on  every  side 
from  all  the  conveniences  of  life,  shops,  and  even  post 
office.  Further,  we  were  very  poor,  and  further  and  worst, 
being  an  only  child,  and  brought  up  to  "great  prospects," 
I  was  sublimely  ignorant  of  every  branch  of  useful  knowl- 
edge, though  a  capital  Latin  scholar  and  very  fair  mathe- 
matician ! ! 

It  behooved  me  in  these  astonishing  circumstances  to 
learn  to  sew.  Husbands,  I  was  shocked  to  find,  wore  their 
stockings  into  holes,  and  were  always  losing  buttons,  and 


246  JANE    WELSH    CAKLYLE  [Mi.  55 

/  was  expected  to  "look  to  all  that";  also  it  behooved  me 
to  learn  to  cook!  No  capable  servant  choosing  to  live  at 
such  an  out-of-the-way  place,  and  my  husband  having 
bad  digestion,  which  complicated  my  difficulties  dread- 
fully. The  bread,  above  all,  brought  from  Dumfries, 
"soured  on  his  stomach"  (0  heaven!),  and  it  was  plainly 
my  duty  as  a  Christian  wife  to  bake  at  home. 

So  I  sent  for  Corbett's  "Cottage  Economy,"  and  fell 
to  work  at  a  loaf  of  bread.  But,  knowing  nothing  about 
the  process  of  fermentation  or  the  heat  of  ovens,  it  came 
to  pass  that  my  loaf  got  put  into  the  oven  at  the  time 
that  myself  ought  to  have  been  put  into  bed;  and  I  re- 
mained the  only  person  not  asleep  in  a  house  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  desert. 

One  o'clock  struck,  and  then  two,  and  then  three;  and 
still  I  was  sitting  there  in  an  immense  solitude,  my  whole 
body  aching  with  weariness,  my  heart  aching  with  a  sense 
of  forlornness  and  degradation.  That  I,  who  had  been 
so  petted  at  home,  whose  comfort  had  been  studied  by 
everybody  in  the  house,  who  had  never  been  required  to 
do  anything  but  cultivate  my  mind,  should  have  to  pass 
all  those  hours  of  the  night  in  watching  a  loaf  of  bread, 
— which  mightn't  turn  out  bread  after  all !  Such  thoughts 
maddened  me,  till  I  laid  down  my  head  on  the  table  and 
sobbed  aloud. 

It  was  then  that  somehow  the  idea  of  Benvenuto  Cellini 
sitting  up  all  night  watching  his  Perseus  in  the  furnace 
came  into  my  head,  and  suddenly  I  asked  myself:  "After 
all,  in  the  sight  of  the  Upper  Powers,  what  is  the  mighty 
difference  between  a  statue  of  Perseus  and  a  loaf  of  bread, 
so  that  each  be  the  thing  one's  hand  has  found  to  do? 
The  man's  determined  will,  his  energy,  his  patience,  his 
resource,  were  the  really  admirable  things,  of  which  his 
statue  of  Perseus  was  the  mere  chance  expression.  If  he 
had  been  a  woman  living  at  Craigenputtock,  with  a  dys- 
peptic husband,  sixteen  miles  from  a  baker,  and  he  a 
bad  one,  all  of  these  same  qualities  would  have  come  out 
more  fitly  in  a  good  loaf  of  bread."' 

I  cannot  express  what  consolation  this  germ  of  an  idea 
spread  over  my  uncongenial  life  during  the  years  we  lived 
at  that  savage  place,  where  my  two  immediate  predeces- 
sors had  gone  mad,  and  the  third  had  taken  to  drink.  .  . 


[JSt.  43]  THOMAS   HOOD 

1799-1845 

To  CHARLES  DICKENS 
[AN  AMERICAN  FRIEND] 

17,  ELM  TREE  ROAD,  LONDON, 

Oct.  12th,  1842. 
Dear  Dickens, 

Can  you  let  me  have  an  early  copy  of  the  "American 
Notes,"  so  that  I  may  review  it  in  the  "New  Monthly"? 
Is  it  really  likely  to  be  ready  as  advertised?  I  aim  this 
at  Devonshire  Place,  supposing  you  to  be  returned,  for 
with  these  winds  'tis  no  fit  time  for  the  coast.  But  your 
bones  are  not  so  weather  unwise  (for  ignorance  is  bliss) 
as  mine.  I  should  have  asked  this  by  word  of  mouth  in 
Devonshire  Place,  but  the  weather  has  kept  me  in  doors. 
It  is  no  fiction  that  the  complaint,  derived  from  Dutch 
malaria  seven  years  since,  is  revived  by  Easterly  winds. 
Otherwise  I  frave  been  better  than  usual,  and  "never  say 
die."  Don't  forget  about  the  Yankee  Notes:  I  never  had 
but  one  American  friend,  and  lost  him  thro'  a  good  crop 
of  pears.  He  paid  us  a  visit  in  England;  whereupon  in 
honour  of  him,  a  pear  tree,  which  had  never  borne  fruit 
to  speak  of  within  memory  of  man,  was  loaded  with  90 
dozen  brown  somethings.  Our  gardener  said  they  were 
a  keeping  sort,  and  would  be  good  at  Christmas;  where- 
upon, as  our  Jonathan  was  on  the  eve  of  sailing  for  the 
States,  we  sent  him  a  few  dozens  to  dessert  him  on  the 
voyage.  Some  he  put  at  the  bottom  of  a  trunk  (he  wrote 
to  us)  to  take  to  America;  but  he  could  not  have  been 
gone  above  a  day  or  two,  when  all  our  pears  began  to 
rot!  His  would,  of  course,  by  sympathy,  and  I  presume 
spoilt  his  linen  or  clothes,  for  I  have  never  heard  of  him 
since.  Perhaps  he  thought  I  had  done  him  on  purpose, 
and  for  s  art  in  the  tree,  my  accomplice,  never  bore  any 
more  pears,  good  or  bad,  after  that  supernatural  crop. 

Pray  present  my  respects  for  me  to  Mrs.  Dickens.  How 
she  must  enjoy  being  at  home  and  discovering  her  chil- 
dren, after  her  Columbusing,  and  only  discovering 
America. 

I  am,  my  dear  Dickens, 

Yours  very  truly, 

THOMAS 
247 


248  THOMAS    HOOD  [^Et.  45 

Do  you  want  a  motto  for  your  book?  Coleridge  in  his 
Pantisocracy  days,  used  frequently  to  exclaim  in  solilo- 
quy, "I  wish  I  was  in  A-me-ri-ca!"  Perhaps  you  might 
find  something  in  the  advertisements  of  Oldridge's  "Balm 
of  Columbia"  or  the  "American  Soothing  Syrup" — query, 
Gin  twist? 


45] 

To  A  CHILD  (MAY  ELLIOT) 
[AT  THE  SEASIDE] 

DEVONSHIRE  LODGE,  NEW  FINCHLEY  ROAD, 

July  1st,  1844. 
My  dear  May, 

How  do  you  do,  and  how  do  you  like  the  sea  ?  not  much 
perhaps,  it's  "so  big."  But  shouldn't  you  like  a  nice 
little  ocean,  that  you  could  put  in  a  pan?  Yet  the  sea, 
although  it  looks  rather  ugly  at  first,  is  very  useful,  and, 
if  I  were  near  it  this  dry  summer,  I  would  carry  it  all 
home,  to  water  the  garden  with  at  Stratford,  and  it  would 
be  sure  to  drown  all  the  blights,  May-fties  and  all! 

I  remember  that,  when  I  saw  the  sea,  it  used  some- 
times to  be  very  fussy,  and  fidgetty,  and  did  not  always 
wash  itself  quite  clean;  but  it  was  very  fond  of  fun. 
Have  the  waves  ever  run  after  you  yet,  and  turned  your 
little  two  shoes  into  pumps,  full  of  water? 

If  you  want  a  joke  you  might  push  Dunnie  into  the 
sea,  and  then  fish  for  him  as  they  do  for  a  Jack.  But 
don't  go  in  yourself,  and  don't  let  the  baby  go  in  and 
swim  away,  although  he  is  the  shrimp  of  the  family.  Did 
you  ever  taste  the  sea-water?  The  fishes  are  so  fond  of 
it  they  keep  drinking  it  all  the  day  long.  Dip  your  little 
finger  in,  and  then  suck  it  to  see  how  it  tastes.  A  glass 
of  it  warm,  with  sugar  arid  a  grate  of  nutmeg,  would 
quite  astonish  you!  The  water  of  the  sea  is  so  saline,  I 
wonder  nobody  catches  salt  fish  in  it.  I  should  think  a 
good  way  would  be  to  go  out  in  a  butter-boat,  with  a 
little  melted  for  sauce.  Have  you  been  bathed  yet  in  the 
sea,  and  were  you  afraid?  I  was,  the  first  time,  and  the 
time  before  that ;  and  dear  me,  how  I  kicked,  and  screamed 
— or,  at  least,  meant  to  scream,  but  the  sea,  ships  and 


^Et.  45]  THOMAS    HOOD  249 

all,  began  to  run  into  my  mouth,  and  so  I  shut  it  up.  I 
think  I  see  you  being  dipped  in  the  sea,  screwing  your 
eyes  up,  and  putting  your  nose,  like  a  button,  into  your 
mouth,  like  a  button-hole,  for  fear  of  getting  another 
smell  and  taste !  By  the  bye,  did  you  ever  dive  your  head 
under  water  with  your  legs  up  in  the  air  like  a  duck,  and 
try  whether  you  could  cry  "Quack?"  Some  animals  can! 
I  would  try,  but  there  is  no  sea  here,  and  so  I  am  forced 
to  dip  into  books.  I  wish  there  were  such  nice  green  hills 
here  as  there  are  at  Sandgate.  They  must  be  very  nice 
to  roll .  down,  especially  if  there  are  no  furze  bushes  to 
prickle  one,  at  the  bottom!  Do  you  remember  how  the 
thorns  stuck  in  us  like  a  penn'orth  of  mixed  pins  at  Wan- 
stead?  I  have  been  very  ill,  and  am  so  thin  now,  I  could 
stick  myself  into  a  prickle.  My  legs,  in  particular,  are 
so  wasted  away,  that  somebody  says  my  pins  are  only 
needles;  and  I  am  so  weak,  I  dare  say  you  could  push 
me  down  on  the  floor  and  right  through  the  carpet,  un- 
less it  was  a  strong  pattern.  I  am  sure,  if  I  were  at 
Sandgate,  you  could  carry  me  to  the  post  office  and  fetch 
my  letters.  Talking  of  carrying,  I  suppose  you  have 
donkeys  at  Sandgate,  and  ride  about  on  them.  Mind 
and  always  call  them  "donkeys,"  for  if  you  call  them 
asses,  it  might  reach  such  long  ears!  I  knew  a  donkey 
once  that  kicked  a  man  for  calling  him  Jack  instead  of 
John. 

There  are  no  flowers,  I  suppose,  on  the  beach,  or  I 
would  ask  you  to  bring  me  a  bouquet,  as  you  used  at 
Stratford.  But  there  are  little  crabs!  If  you  would 
catch  one  for  me,  and  teach  it  to  dance  the  Polka,  it 
would  make  me  quite  happy;  for  I  have  not  had  any  toys 
or  playthings  for  a  long  time.  Did  you  ever  try,  like  a 
little  crab,  to  run  two  ways  at  once?  See  if  you  can  do 
it,  for  it  is  good  fun ;  never  mind  tumbling  over  your- 
self a  little  at  first.  It  would  be  a  good  plan  to  hire  a 
little  crab,  for  an  hour  a  day,  to  teach  baby  to  crawl,  if 
he  can't  walk,  and,  if  I  was  his  mamma,  I  would  too! 
Bless  him!  But  I  must  not  write  on  him  any  more — he  is 
so  soft,  and  I  have  nothing  but  steel  pens. 

And  now  good  bye,  Fanny  has  made  my  tea,  and  I 
must  drink  it  before  it  gets  too  hot,  as  we  all  were  last 
Sunday  week.  They  say  the  glass  was  88  in  the  shade, 


250  EUFUS    CHOATE  [^Et.  53 

which  is  a  great  age!  The  last  fair  breeze  I  blew  dozens 
of  kisses  for  you,  but  the  wind  changed,  and  I  ana  afraid 

took  them  all  to  Miss  H or  somebody  that  it  shouldn't. 

Give  my  love  to  everybody  and  my  compliments  to  all 
the  rest,  and  remember,  I  am,  my  dear  May,  your  loving 
friend, 

THOMAS  HOOD. 

P.S.  Don't  forget  my  little  crab  to  dance  the  Polka, 
and  pray  write  to  me  as  soon  as  you  can't,  if  it's  only  a 
line. 


[Mt.  53]  KUFUS    CHOATE 

1799-1859 

To  His  DAUGHTER 

[NEWS  ABOUT  HIMSELF] 

Monday,  August,  1853. 
Dear  Sallie, — 

The  accompanying  letter  came  to  me  to-day,  and  I  send 
it  with  alacrity.  I  wish  you  would  study  calligraphy  in 
it,  if  what  I  see  not  is  as  well  written  as  what  I  do.  I 
got  quietly  home,  to  a  cool,  empty  house,  unvexed  of 
mosquito,  sleeping  to  the  drowsy  cricket.  It  lightened  a 
little,  thundered  still  less,  and  rained  half  an  hour;  but 
the  sensation,  the  consciousness  that  the  Sirian-tartarean 
summer  is  really  gone— though  it  is  sad  that  so  much  of 
life  goes  too — is  delightful.  Next  summer  will  probably 
be  one  long  April  or  October.  By  the  way,  the  dream  of 
the  walnut  grove  and  the  light-house  is  finished.  They 
will  not  sell,  and  the  whole  world  is  to  choose  from  yet. 
I  see  and  hear  nothing  of  nobody.  I  bought  a  capital 
book  to-day  by  Bungener,  called  "Voltaire  and  his  Times," 
fifty  pages  of  which  I  have  run  over.  He  is  the  author 
of  "Three  Sermons  under  Louis  XV.,"  and  is  keen, 
bright,  and  just,  according  to  my  ideas,  as  far  as  I  have 
gone.  My  course  this  week  is  rudely  broken  in  upon  by 
the  vileness  and  vulgarity  of  business,  and  this  day  has 
been  lean  of  good  books  and  rich  thoughts,  turning  chiefly 
on  whether  charcoal  is  an  animal  nuisance,  and  whether 
Dr.  Manning's  will  shall  stand.  Still,  Eufus  will  be  glad 


Mi.  25]      THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY     251 

to  hear  I   read  my  ^Eschines   and   Cicero   and   German 
Martial,  and,  as  I  have  said,  this  Bungener. 

I  wish  you  would  all  come  home;  that  is,  that  your 
time  had  arrived.  Pick  up,  dear  daughter,  health,  nerves, 
and  self-trust,  and  come  here  to  make  the  winter  of  our 
discontent  glorious  summer. 

Thank  your  dear  mother  and  Rufus  for  their  letters. 
I  hope  for  Minnie  a  neck  without  a  crick,  and  a  lot  with- 
out a  crook,  if  one  may  be  so  jinglesome.  One  of  the 
Choates  of  Salem  called  in  my  absence — if  Daniel  did 
not  see  a  doppelg anger,  in  a  dream — but  which,  where  he 
is,  what  he  wants,  where  he  goes,  or  how  he  fares,  I  know 
not.  I  would  invite  him  to  dine,  if  I  knew  where  he  was. 
Best  love  to  all.  Tell  your  mother  I  don't  believe  I  shall 
write  her  for  two  or  three  days,  but  give  her,  and  all,  my 
love.  I  like  the  court-house  prospect  and  the  Bucolical 
cow,  and  verdant  lawn  much,  as  Minnie  says.  Good-by, 
all. 

R.  C. 

[JEt.  25] 

THOMAS   BABINGTON   MACAULAY 

1800-1859 
To  HIS  FATHER 
[SYDNEY  SMITH] 

YORK,  July  21st,  1826. 
My  dear  Father, — 

The  other  day  as  I  was  changing  my  neckcloth,  which 
my  wig  had  disfigured,  my  good  landlady  knocked  at  the 
door  of  my  bedroom,  and  told  me  that  Mr.  Smith  wished 
to  see  me,  and  was  in  my  room  below.  Of  all  names  by 
which  men  are  called,  there  is  none  which  conveys  a  less 
determinate  idea  to  the  mind  than  that  of  Smith.  Was 
he  on  the  circuit?  For  I  do  not  know  half  the  names  of 
my  companions.  Was  he  a  special  messenger  from  Lon- 
don ?  Was  he  a  York  attorney  coming  to  be  preyed  upon, 
or  a  beggar  coming  to  prey  upon  me;  a  barber  to  solicit 
the  dressing  of  my  wig,  or  a  collector  for  the  Jews'  So- 
ciety? Down  I  went,  and,  to  my  utter  amazement,  be- 
held the  Smith  of  Smiths,  Sydney  Smith,  alias  Peter 
Plymley.  I  had  forgotten  his  very  existence  till  I  dis- 


252     THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY      [^Et.  35 

cerned  the  queer  contrast  between  his  black  coat  and  his 
snow-white  head,  and  the  equally  curious  contrast  be- 
tween the  clerical  amplitude  of  his  person  and  the  most 
unclerical  wit,  whim,  and  petulance  of  his  eye.  I  shook 
hands  with  him  very  heartily;  and  on  the  Catholic  ques- 
tion we  immediately  fell,  regretted  Evans,  triumphed  over 
Lord  George  Beresford,  and  abused  the  bishops.  He  then 
very  kindly  urged  me  to  spend  the  time  between  the  close 
of  the  Assizes  and  the  commencement  of  the  Sessions  at 
his  house;  and, was  so  hospitably  pressing  that  I  at  last 
agreed  to  go  thither  on  Saturday  afternoon.  He  is  to 
drive  me  over  again  into  York  on  Monday  morning.  I 
am  very  well  pleased  at  having  this  opportunity  of  be- 
coming better  acquainted  with  a  man  who,  in  spite  of 
innumerable  affectations  and  oddities,  is  certainly  one  of 
the  wittiest  and  most  original  writers  of  our  times.  Ever 
yours  affectionately, 

T.  B.  M. 

[JEt.  35] 

To  THOMAS  ELOWER  ELLIS 
[LIFE  IN  INDIA;  READING  THE  CLASSICS] 

CALCUTTA,  May  30th,  1836. 
Dear  Ellis, — 

I  have  just  received  your  letter  dated  December  28th. 
How  time  flies!  Another  hot  season  has  almost  passed 
away,  and  we  are  daily  expecting  the  beginning  of  the 
rains.  Cold  season,  hot  season,  and  rainy  season  are  all 
much  the  same  to  me.  I  shall  have  been  two  years  on 
Indian  ground  in  less  than  a  fortnight,  and  I  have  not 
taken  ten  grains  of  solid,  or  a  pint  of  liquid,  medicine 
during  the  whole  of  that  time.  If  I  judged  only  from 
my  own  sensations,  I  should  say  that  this  climate  is  ab- 
surdly maligned;  but  the  yellow,  spectral  figures  which 
surround  me  serve  to  correct  the  conclusions  which  I 
should  be  inclined  to  draw  from  the  state  of  my  own 
health. 

One  execrable  effect  the  climate  produces.  It  destroys 
all  the  works  of  man  with  scarcely  one  exception.  Steel 
rusts;  razors  lose  their  edge;  thread  decays;  clothes  fall 
to  pieces ;  books  molder  away  and  drop  out  of  their  bind- 
ings; plaster  cracks;  timber  rots;  matting  is  in  shreds. 


m,.  35]     THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY      253 

The  sun,  the  steam  of  this  vast  alluvial  tract,  and  the  in- 
finite armies  of  white  ants,  make  such  havoc  with  build- 
ings that  a  house  requires  a  complete  repair  every  three 
years.  Ours  was  in  this  situation  about  three  months 
ago;  and,  if  we  had  determined  to  brave  the  rains  with- 
out any  precautions,  we  should,  in  all  probability,  have 
had  the  roof  down  on  our  heads.  Accordingly,  we  were 
forced  to  migrate  for  six  weeks  from  our  stately  apart- 
ments and  our  flower-beds  to  a  dungeon  where  we  were 
stifled  with  the  stench  of  native  cookery,  and  deafened 
by  the  noise  of  native  music.  At  last  we  have  returned 
to  our  house.  We  found  it  all  snow-white  and  pea-green ; 
and  we  rejoice  to  think  that  we  shall  not  again  be  under 
the  necessity  of  quitting  it  till  we  quit  it  for  a  ship 
bound  on  a  voyage  to  London. 

We  have  been  for  some  months  in  the  middle  of  what 
the  people  here  think  a  political  storm.  To  a  person  ac- 
customed to  the  hurricanes  of  English  faction  this  sort 
of  tempest  in  a  horse-pond  is  merely  ridiculous.  We  have 
put  the  English  settlers  up  the  country  under  the  ex- 
clusive jurisdiction  of  the  company's  courts  in  civil  ac- 
tions in  which  they  are  concerned  with  natives.  The 
English  settlers  are  perfectly  contented;  but  the  lawyers 
of  the  Supreme  Court  have  set  up  a  yelp  which  they 
think  terrible,  and  which  has  infinitely  diverted  me.  They 
have  selected  me  as  the  object  of  their  invectives,  and  I 
am  generally  the  theme  of  five  or  six. columns  of  prose 
and  verse  daily.  I  have  not  patience  to  read  a  tenth 
part  of  what  they  put  forth.  The  last  ode  in  my  praise 
which  I  perused  began, 

Soon  we  hope  they  will  recall  ye, 
Tom  Macaulay,  Tom  Macaulay. 

The  last  prose  which  I  read  was  a  parallel  between  me 
and  Lord  Strafford. 

My  mornings,  from  five  to  nine,  are  quite  my  own.  I 
still  give  them  to  ancient  literature.  I  have  read  Aris- 
tophanes twice  through  since  Christmas;  and  have  also 
read  Herodotus,  and  Thucydides,  again.  I  got  into  a 
way  last  year  of  reading  a  Greek  play  every  Sunday.  I 
began  on  Sunday,  the  18th  of  October,  with  the  "Prome- 


254     THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY      [^Et.  35 

theus,"  and  next  Sunday  I  shall  finish  with  the  "Cy- 
clops" of  Euripides.  Euripides  has  made  a  complete  con- 
quest of  me.  It  has  been  unfortunate  for  him  that  we 
have  so  many  of  his  pieces.  It  has,  on  the  other  hand, 
I  suspect,  been  fortunate  for  Sophocles  that  so  few  of 
his  have  come  down  to  us.  Almost  every  play  of  Soph- 
ocles which  is  now  extant  was  one  of  his  masterpieces. 
There  is  hardly  one  of  them  which  is  not  mentioned  with 
high  praise  by  some  ancient  writer.  Yet  one  of  them, 
the  "Trachinise,"  is,  to  my  thinking,  very  poor  and  in- 
sipid. Now,  if  we  had  nineteen  plays  of  Sophocles,  of 
which  twelve  or  thirteen  should  be  no  better  than  the 
"TrachiniaB" — and  if,  on  the  other  hand,  only  seven  pieces 
of  Euripides  had  come  down  to  us,  and  if  those  seven 
had  been  the  "Medea,"  the  "BacchaB,"  the  "Iphigenia  in 
Aulis,"  the  "Orestes,"  the  "Phcenissae,"  the  "Hippolytus," 
and  the  "Alcestis" — I  am  not  sure  that  the  relative  po- 
sition which  the  two  poets  now  hold  in  our  estimation 
would  not  be  greatly  altered. 

I  have  not  done  much  in  Latin.  I  have  been  employed 
in  turning  over  several  third-rate  and  fourth-rate  writ- 
ers. After  finishing  Cicero,  I  read  through  the  works  of 
both  the  Senecas,  father  and  son.  There  is  a  great  deal 
in  the  "Controversial  both  of  curious  information  and 
of  judicious  criticism.  As  to  the  son,  I  can  not  bear  him. 
His  style  affects  me  in  something  the  same  way  with  that 
of  Gibbon.  But  Lucius  Seneca's  affectation  is  even  more 
rank  than  Gibbon's.  His  works  are  made  up  of  mottoes. 
There  is  hardly  a  sentence  which  might  not  be  quoted; 
but  to  read  him  straight  forward  is  like  dining  on  noth- 
ing but  anchovy  sauce.  I  have  read,  as  one  does  read 
such  stuff,  Valerius  Maximus,  Annseus  Florus,  Lucius 
Ampelius,  and  Aurelius  Victor.  I  have  also  gone  through 
PhaBdrus.  I  ani  now  better  employed.  I  am  deep  in  the 
"Annals"  of  Tacitus,  and  I  am  at  the  same  time  reading 
Suetonius. 

You  are  so  rich  in  domestic  comforts  that  I  am  in- 
clined to  envy  you.  I  am  not,  however,  without  my  share. 
I  am  as  fond  of  my  little  niece  as  her  father.  I  pass  an 
hour  or  more  every  day  in  nursing  her,  and  teaching  her 
to  talk.  She  has  got  as  far  as  Ba,  Pa,  and  Ma;  which, 
as  she  is  not  eight  months  old,  we  consider  as  proofs  of  a 


Ml.  41]     THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY      255 

genius  little  inferior  to  that  of  Shakspeare  or  Sir  Isaac 
Newton. 

The  municipal  elections  have  put  me  in  good  spirits  as 
to  English  politics.  I  was  rather  inclined  to  despondency. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

T.  B.  MACAULAY. 
[Ml.  41] 

To  MACVEY  NAPIER 

[A  DEFENCE  -OF   HIS  DICTION] 

ALBANY,  LONDON,  April  18th,  1842. 
My  dear  Napier, — 

I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  criticisms  on  my 
article  on  Frederic.  My  copy  of  the  Review  I  have  lent, 
and  can  not  therefore  refer  to  it.  I  have,  however,  thought 
over  what  you  say,  and  should  be  disposed  to  admit  part 
of  it  to  be  just.  But  I  have  several  distinctions  and  lim- 
itations to  suggest. 

The  charge  to  which  I  am  most  sensible  is  that  of  in- 
terlarding my  sentences  with  French  terms.  I  will  not 
positively  affirm  that  no  such  expression  may  have  dropped 
from  my  pen,  in  writing  hurriedly  on  a  subject  so  very 
French.  It  is,  however,  a  practice  to  which  I  am  ex- 
tremely averse,  and  into  which  I  could  fall  only  by  inad- 
vertence. I  do  not  really  know  to  what  you  allude;  for 
as  to  words  "Abbe"  and  "Parcaux-Cerfs,"  which  I  recol- 
lect, those  surely  are  not  open  to  objection.  I  remember 
that  I  carried  my  love  of  English  in  one  or  two  places 
almost  to  the  length  of  affectation.  For  example,  I  called 
the  "Place  des  Victoires"  the  "Place  of  Victories;"  and 
the  "Fermier  General"  D'Etioles  a  "publican."  I  will 
look  over  the  article  again,  when  I  get  it  into  my  hands, 
and  try  to  discover  to  what  you  allude. 

The  other  charge,  I  confess,  does  not  appear  to  me  to 
be  equally  serious.  I  certainly  should  not,  in  regular 
history,  use  some  of  the  phrases  which  you  censure.  But 
I  do  not  consider  a  review  of  this  sort  as  regular  history, 
and  I  really  think  that,  from  the  highest  and  most  un- 
questionable authority,  I  could  vindicate  my  practice. 
Take  Addison,  the  model  of  pure  and  graceful  writing. 
In  his  Spectators  I  find  "wench,"  "baggage,"  "queer  old 
put,"  "prig,"  "fearing  that  they  should  smoke  the  Knight." 


256      THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY     [At.  41 

All  these  expressions  I  met  this  morning,  in  turning  over 
two  or  three  of  his  papers  at  breakfast.  I  would  no  more 
use  the  word  "bore"  or  "awkward  squad"  in  a  composi- 
tion meant  to  be  uniformly  serious  and  earnest,  than 
Addison  would  in  a  state  paper  have  called  Louis  an  "old 
put,"  or  have  described  Shrewsbury  and  Argyle  as  "smok- 
ing" the  design  to  bring  in  the  Pretender.  But  I  did  not 
mean  my  article  to  be  uniformly  serious  and  earnest.  If 
you  judge  of  it  as  you  would  judge  of  a  regular  history, 
your  censure  ought  to  go  very  much  deeper  than  it  does, 
and  to  be  directed  against  the  substance  as  well  as  against 
the  diction.  The  tone  of  many  passages,  nay,  of  whole 
pages,  would  justly  be  called  flippant  in  a  regular  his- 
tory. But  I  conceive  that  this  sort  of  composition  has 
its  own  character  and  its  own  laws.  I  do  not  claim  the 
honour  of  having  invented  it;  that  praise  belongs  to 
Southey;  but  I  may  say  that  I  have  in  some  points  im- 
proved upon  his  design.  The  manner  of  these  little  his- 
torical essays  bears,  I  think,  the  same  analogy  to  the  man- 
ner of  Tacitus  or  Gibbon  which  the  manner  of  Ariosto 
bears  to  the  manner  of  Tasso,  or  the  manner  of  Shak- 
speare's  historical  plays  to  the  manner  of  Sophocles. 
Ariosto,  when  he  is  grave  and  pathetic,  is  as  grave  and 
pathetic  as  Tasso;  but  he  often  takes  a  light,  fleeting 
tone  which  suits  him  admirably,  but  which  in  Tasso 
would  be  quite  out  of  place.  The  despair  of  Constance 
in  Shakspeare  is  as  lofty  as  that  of  (Edipus  in  Sophocles; 
but  the  levities  of  the  bastard  Fauleonbridge  would  be 
utterly  out  of  place  in  Sophocles.  Yet  we  feel  that  they 
are  not  out  of  place  in  Shakspeare. 

•So  with  these  historical  articles.  Where  the  subject 
requires  it,  they  may  rise,  if  the  author  can  manage  it, 
to  the  highest  altitudes  of  Thucydides.  Then,  again,  they 
may  without  impropriety  sink  to  the  levity  and  colloquial 
ease  of  Horace  Walpole's  Letters.  This  is  my  theory. 
Whether  I  have  succeeded  in  the  execution  is  quite  an- 
other question.  You  will,  however,  perceive  that  I  am 
in  no  danger  of  taking  similar  liberties  in  my  "History." 
I  do,  indeed,  greatly  disapprove  of  those  notions  which 
some  writers  have  of  the  dignity  of  history.  For  fear  of 
alluding  to  the  vulgar  concerns  of  private  life,  they  take 
no  notice  of  the  circumstances  which  deeply  affect  the 


M*.  41]     THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY      257 

happiness  of  nations.  But  I  never  thought  of  denying 
that  the  language  of  history  ought  to  preserve  a  certain 
dignity.  I  would,  however,  no  more  attempt  to  preserve 
that  dignity  in  a  paper  like  this  on  Frederic  than  I  would 
exclude  from  such  a  poem  as  "Don  Juan"  slang  terms, 
because  such  terms  would  be  out  of  place  in  "Paradise 
Lost,"  or  Hudibrastic  rhymes,  because  such  rhymes  would 
be  shocking  in  Pope's  "Iliad." 

As  to  the  particular  criticisms  which  you  have  made, 
I  willingly  submit  my  judgment  to  yours,  though  I  think 
that  I  could  say  something  on  the  other  side.  The  first  rule 
of  all  writing — that  rule  to  which  every  other  is  subordi- 
nate— is  that  the  words  used  by  the  writer  shall  be  such 
as  most  fully  and  precisely  convey  his  meaning  to  the 
great  body  of  his  readers.  All  considerations  about  the 
purity  and  dignity  of  style  ought  to  bend  to  this  con- 
sideration. To  write  what  is  not  understood  in  its  whole 
force  for  fear  of  using  some  word  which  was  unknown 
to  Swift  or  Dryden  would  be,  I  think,  as  absurd  as  to 
build  an  observatory  like  that  at  Oxford,  from  which 
jt  is  impossible  to  observe,  only  for  the  purpose  of  ex- 
actly preserving  the  proportions  of  the  Temple  of  the 
Winds  at  Athens.  That  a  word  which  is  appropriate  to 
a  particular  idea,  which  every  body,  high  and  low,  uses 
to  express  that  idea,  and  which  expresses  that  idea  with 
a  completeness  which  is  not  equaled  by  any  other  single 
word,  and  scarcely  by  any  circumlocution,  should  be  ban- 
ished from  writing,  seems  to  be  a  mere  throwing-away  of 
power.  Such  a  word  as  "talented"  it  is  proper  to  avoid: 
first,  because  it  is  not  wanted;  secondly,  because  you 
never  hear  it  from  those  who  speak  very  good  English. 
But  the  word  "shirk"  as  applied  to  military  duty  is  a 
word  which  every  body  uses;  which  is  the  word,  and  the 
only  word,  for  the  thing;  which  in  every  regiment  and 
in  every  ship  belonging  to  our  country  is  employed  ten 
times  a  day;  which  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  or  Admiral 
Stopford,  would  use  in  reprimanding  an  officer.  To  in- 
terdict it,  therefore,  in  what  is  meant  to  be  familiar,  and 
almost  jocose,  narrative  seems  to  me  rather  rigid. 

But  I  will  not  go  on.  I  will  only  repeat  that  I  am 
truly  grateful  for  your  advice,  and  that  if  you  will,  on 
future  occasions,  mark  with  an  asterisk  any  words  in  my 


258  JOHN   HENRY   NEWMAN          [^Et.  44 

proof-sheets  which  you  think  open  to  objection,  I  will  try 
to  meet  your  wishes,  though  it  may  sometimes  be  at  the 
expense  of  my  own. 

Ever  yours  most  truly, 
T.  B.  MACAULAY. 


44]        JOHN   HENRY   NEWMAN 

1801-1890 

To  J.  B.  MOZLEY 

["COMPLICATED  DISTRESS"] 

LITTLEMORE:  April  2,  1845. 

I  have  just  been  looking  at  your  article  in  the  "C.  R.," 
and  it  has  touched  me  exceedingly.  I  knew  you  loved 
me,  as  I  do  you,  but  I  was  not  prepared  for  what  you 
say;  and  now,  as  is  the  law  of  such  things,  I  know  it  just 
when  I  am  losing  it.  You  speak  as  if  writing  a  funeral 
oration,  and  so  it  is.  Yet  sometimes  I  think,  so  it  shall 
not  be — for  surely  I  am  now  more  cut  off  from  you  than 
I  can  be  in  any  other  circumstances,  and  when  the  dread- 
ful trials  of  the  next  few  years  are  over  I  may  have  the 
opportunity,  if  we  both  live,  of  something  more  of  in- 
timacy with  you  than  I  can  have  now. 

Alas!  I  do  not  forget  how  changeable  all  things  are, 
and  how  difficult  it  is  for  minds  to  keep  pace  with  each 
other  which  walk  apart.  You  may  fancy  how  all  this 
oppresses  me.  All  that  is  dear  to  me  is  being  taken  from 
me.  My  days  are  gone  like  a  shadow,  and  I  am  withered 
like  grass. 

I  say  to  myself,  if  I  am  under  a  delusion,  what  have 
I  done,  what  grave  sin  have  I  committed,  to  bring  such  a 
judgment  on  me?  O  that  it  may  be  revealed  to  me,  and 
the  delusion  broken!  But  I  go  on  month  after  month, 
year  after  year,  without  change  of  feeling  except  in  one 
direction ;  not  floating  up  and  down,  but  driving  one  way. 

I  know  well,  my  dear  James,  that  you  do  not  forget  to 
think  of  me  at  solemn  times,  but  I  really  think  that  now 
the  time  is  short.  I  cannot  promise  myself  to  remain 
as  I  am  after  Christmas,  perhaps  not  so  long,  though  I 
suppose  in  the  event  I  shall  linger  on  some  little  while 


77]          JOHN   HENRY   NEWMAN  259 

longer.    By  November  I  expect  to  have  resigned  my  Fel- 
lowship, and  perhaps  may  publish  something. 

I  don't  mind  your  telling  this  in  confidence  to  anyone 
you  please,  but  of  course  you  will  keep  this  letter  safely. 
What  complicated  distress!     I  suppose  it  will  be  less 
when  the  worst  is  over. 

Ever  yours  most  affectionately, 

JOHN  H.  NEWMAN. 
I>Et.  44] 

To  MRS.  J.  MOZLEY* 
[BECOMING  A  ROMAN  CATHOLIC] 

LITTLEMORE,  October  8,  1845. 
My  dear  Jemima, — 

I  must  tell  you  what  will  pain  you  greatly,  but  I  will 
make  it  as  short  as  you  would  wish  me  to  do. 

This  night  Father  Dominic,  the  Passionist,  sleeps  here. 
He  does  not  know  of  my  intention,  but  I  shall  ask  him 
to  receive  me  into  what  I  believe  to  be  the  One  Fold  of 
the  Redeemer. 

This  will  not  go  till  all  is  over. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

JOHN  H.  NEWMAN. 
[^Et.  77] 

To  DR.  GREENHILL 

["A  STATUTE  OF  LIMITATION"] 

January  18,  1879. 
My  dear  Dr.  Greenhill, — 

You  natter  me  by  your  question  ;f  but  I  think  it  was 
Keble  who,  when  asked  it  in  his  own  case,  answered  that 
poets  were  not  bound  to  be  critics,  or  to  give  a  sense  to 
what  they  had  written;  and  though  I  am  not,  like  him, 
a  poet,  at  least  I  may  plead  that  I  am  not  bound  to  re- 
member my  own  meaning,  whatever  it -was,  at  the  end  of 
almost  fifty  years.  Anyhow,  there  must  be  a  statute  of 
limitation  for  writers  of  verse,  as  it  would  be  quite  a 
tyranny  if,  in  an  art  which  is  the  expression,  not  of 
truth,  but  of  imagination  and  sentiment,  one  were  obliged 
to  be  ready  for  examination  on  the  transient  states  of 

*  His  sister. 

f  As  to  the  meaning  of  the  last  two  lines  of  "Lead,   Kindly  Light." 


260  KALPH  .WALDO    EMERSON          [^Et.  9 

mind  which  came  upon  one  when  homesick  or  seasick,  or 
in  any  other  way  sensitive  or  excited.   .    .    . 

Yours  most  truly, 
JOHN  H.  NEWMAN. 


[>Et.  9]       RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

1803-1882 

To  His  AUNT,  MARY  MOODY  EMERSON 
[A  BOY'S  DAY] 

BOSTON,  April  16,  1813. 
Dear  Aunt, — 

I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  letter.  I  mean 
now  to  give  you  an  account  of  what  I  do  commonly  in 
one  day,  if  that  is  what  you  meant  by  giving  an  account 
of  one  single  day  in  my  life.  Friday,  9th,  I  choose  for 
the  day  of  telling  what  I  did.  In  the  Morning  I  rose,  as 
I  commonly  do,  about  five  minutes  before  six.  I  then 
help  Wm.  in  making  the  fire,  after  which  I  set  the  table 
for  Prayers.  I  then  call  mamma  about  quarter  after  six. 
We  spell  as  we  did  before  you  went  away.  I  confess  I 
often  feel  an  angry  passion  start  in  one  corner  of  my 
heart  when  one  of  my  Brothers  gets  above  me,  which  I 
think  sometimes  they  do  by  unfair  means,  after  which 
we  eat  our  breakfast;  then  I  have  from  about  quarter 
after  seven  till  eight  to  play  or  read.  I  think  I  am  rather 
inclined  to  the  former.  I  then  go  to  school,  where  I  hope 
I  can  say  I  study  more  than  I  did  a  little  while  ago.  I 
am  in  another  book  called  Virgil,  and  our  class  are  even 
with  another  which  came  to  the  Latin  School  one  year 
before  us.  After  attending  this  school  I  go  to  Mr.  Webb's 
private  school,  where  I  write  and  cipher.  I  go  to  this 
place  at  eleven  and  stay  till  one  o'clock.  After  this,  when 
I  come  home  I  eat  my  dinner,  and  at  two  o'clock  I  re- 
sume my  studies  at  the  Latin  School,  where  I  do  the 
same  except  in  studying  grammar.  After  I  come  home 
I  do  mamma  her  little  errands  if  she  has  any;  then  I 
bring  in  my  wood  to  supply  the  breakfast  room.  I  then 
have  some  time  to  play  and  eat  my  supper.  After  that 
we  say  our  hymns  or  chapters,  and  then  take  our  turns 
in  reading  Rollin,  as  we  did  before  you  went.  We  retire 


^Et.  34]        KALPH   WALDO   EMERSON  261 

to  bed  at  different  times.  I  go  at  a  little  after  eight,  and 
retire  to  my  private  devotions,  and  then  close  my  eyes  in 
sleep,  and  there  ends  the  toils  of  the  day.  .  .  .1  have 
sent  a  letter  to  you  in  a  Packet  bound  to  Portland,  which 
I  suppose  you  have  not  received,  as  you  made  no  mention 
of  it  in  your  letter  to  mamma.  Give  my  love  to  Aunt 
Haskins  and  Aunt  Ripley,~with  Robert  and  Charles  and 
all  my  cousins,  and  I  hope  you  will  send  me  an  answer 
to  this  the  first  opportunity,  and  believe  me,  I  remain 
your  most  dutiful  Nephew, 

R.  WALDO  EMERSON. 


.  34] 

To  CARLYLE 
[STERLING;  "THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION"  IN  AMERICA] 

CONCORD,  9  February,  1838. 
My  dear  Friend,  — 

It  is  ten  days  now  —  ten  cold  days  —  that  your  last  letter 
has  kept  my  heart  warm,  and  I  have  not  been  able  to 
write  you  before.  I  have  just  finished  —  Wednesday  even- 
ing —  a  course  of  lectures  which  I  ambitiously  baptized 
"Human  Culture,"  and  read  once  a  week  to  the  curious 
in  Boston.  I  could  write  nothing  else  the  while,  for 
weariness  of  the  week's  stated  scribbling.  Now  I  am  free 
as  a  wood-bird,  and  can  take  up  the  pen  without  fretting 
or  fear.  Your  letter*  should,  and  nearly  did,  make  me 
jump  for  joy,  —  fine  things  labout  our  poor  speech  at  Cam- 
bridge, —  fine  things  from  CARLYLE.  'Scarcely  could  we 
maintain  a  decorous  gravity  on  the  occasion.  And  then 
news  of  a  friend,  who  is  also  Carlyle's  friend.  What  has 
life  better  to  offer  than  such  tidings?  You  may  suppose 
I  went  directly  and  got  me  Blackwood,  and  read  the  prose 
and  the  verse  of  John  Sterling,  and  saw  that  my  man 
had  a  head  and  a  heart,  and  spent  an  hour  or  two  very 
happily  in  spelling  his  biography  out  of  his  own  hand;  — 
a  species  of  palmistry  in  which  I  have  a  perfect  reliance. 
I  found  many  incidents  grave  and  gay  and  beautiful, 
and  have  determined  to  love  him  very  much.  In  this 
romancing  of  the  gentle  affections  we  are  children  ever- 

*  For  Carlyle's  letter  see  p.  228. 


262  KALPH   WALDO    EMERSON         [^Et.  34 

more.  We  forget  the  age  of  life,  the  barriers  so  thin  and 
yet  so  adamantean  of  space  and  circumstance;  and  I  have 
had  the  rarest  poems  self-singing  in  my  head  of  brave 
men  that  work  and  conspire  in  a  perfect  intelligence 
across  seas  and  conditions — and  meet  at  last.  I  heartily 
pray  that  the  Sea  and  its  vineyards  may  cheer  with  warm 
medicinal  breath  a  Voyager  so  kind  and  noble. 

For  the  Oration,  I  am  so  elated  with  your  good  will 
that  I  begin  to  fear  your  heart  has  betrayed  your  head 
this  time,  and  so  the  praise  is  not  good  on  Parnassus  but 
only  in  friendship.  I  sent  it  diffidently  (I  did  send  it 
through  bookselling  Munroe)  to  you,  and  was  not  a  lit- 
tle surprised  by  your  generous  commendations.  Yet  here 
it  interested  young  men  a  good  deal  for  an  academical 
performance,  and  an  edition  of  five  hundred  was  disposed 
of  in  a  month.  A  new  edition  is  now  printing,  and  I 
will  send  you  some  copies  presently  to  give  to  anybody 
who  you  think  will  read. 

I  have  a  little  budget  of  news  myself.  I  hope  you  had 
my  letter — sent  by  young  Sumner — saying  that  we  meant 
to  print  the  French  Revolution  here  for  the  Author's 
benefit.  It  was  published  on  the  25th  of  December.  It 
is  published  at  my  risk,  the  booksellers  agreeing  to  let 
me  have  at  cost  all  the  copies  I  can  get  subscriptions  for. 
All  the  rest  they  are  to  sell  and  to  have  twenty  per  cent 
on  the  retail  price  for  their  commission.  The  selling  price 
of  the  book  is  $2.50;  the  cost  of  a  copy,  $1.26;  the  book- 
seller's commission,  50  cts. ;  so  that  T.  C.  only  gains  74 
cts.  on  each  copy  they  sell.  But  we  have  two  hundred 
subscribers,  and  on  each  copy  they  buy  you  have  $1.26, 
except  in  cases  where  the  distant  residence  of  subscribers 
makes  a  cost  of  freight.  You  ought  to  have  three  or 
four  quarters  of  a  dollar  more  on  each  copy,  but  we  put 
the  lowest  price  on  the  book  in  terror  of  the  Philistines, 
and  to  secure  its  accessibleness  to  the  economical  Public. 
We  printed  one  thousand  copies:  of  these,  five  hundred 
are  already  sold,  in  six  weeks ;  and  Brown  the  bookseller 
talks,  as  I  think,  much  too  modestly,  of  getting  rid  of 
the  whole  edition  in  one  year.  I  say  six  months.  The 
printing,  &c.,  is  to  be  paid  and  a  settlement  made  in  six 
months  from  the  day  of  publication;  and  I  hope  that  the 
settlement  will  be  the  final  one.  And  I  confide  in  send- 


^,  3*J        EALPH   WALDO   EMERSON  263 

ing  you  seven  hundred  dollars  at  least,  as  a  certificate 
that  you  have  so  many  readers  in  the  West.  Yet,  I  own, 
I  shake  a  little  at  the  thought  of  the  bookseller's  account. 
Whenever  I  have  seen  that  species  of  document,  it  was 
'strange  how  the  hopefulest  ideal  dwindled  away  to  a 
dwarfish  actual.  But  you  may  be  assured  I  shall  on  this 
occasion  summon  to  the  bargain  all  the  Yankee  in  my 
constitution,  and  multiply  and  divide  like  a  lion. 

The  book  has  the  best  success  with  the  best.  Young 
men  say  it  is  the  only  history  they  have  ever  read.  The 
middle-aged  and  the  old  shake  their  heads,  and  cannot 
make  anything  of  it.  In  short,  it  has  the  success  of  a 
book  which,  as  people  have  not  fashioned,  has  to  fashion 
the  people.  It  will  take  some  time  to  win  all,  but  it  wins  and 
will  win.  I  sent  a  notice  of  it  to  the  Christian  Examiner, 
but  the  editor  sent  it  all  back  to  me  except  the  first  and 
last  paragraphs;  those  he  printed.  And  the  editor  of  the 
North  American  declined  giving  a  place  to  a  paper  from 
another  friend  of  yours.  But  we  shall  see.  I  am  glad 
you  are  to  print  your  Miscellanies;  but  —  forgive  our 
Transatlantic  effrontery— we  are  beforehand  of  you,  and 
we  are  already  selecting  a  couple  of  volumes  from  the 
same,  and  shall  print  them  on  the  same  plan  as  the  His- 
tory, and  hope  so  to  turn  a  penny  for  our  friend  again. 
I  surely  should  not  do  this  thing  without  consulting  you 
as  to  the  selection  but  that  I  had  no  choice.  If  I  waited, 
the  bookseller  would  have  done  it  himself,  and  carried 
off  the  profit.  I  sent  you  (to  Kennet)  a  copy  of  the 
French  Revolution.  I  regret  exceedingly  the  printer's 
blunder  about  the  numbering  the  Books  in  the  volumes, 
but  he  had  warranted  me  in  a  literal,  punctual  reprint 
of  the  copy  without  its  leaving  his  office,  and  I  trusted 
him.  I  am  told  there  are  many  errors.  I  am  going  to 
see  for  myself.  I  have  filled  my  paper,  and  not  yet  said 
a  word  of  how  many  things.  You  tell  me  how  ill  was 
Mrs.  C.,  and  you  do  not  tell  me  that  she  is  well  again. 
But  I  see  plainly  that  I  must  take  speedily  another  sheet. 
I  love  you  always. 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 


264  EALPH   WALDO    EMERSON         [>Et.  44 

[JSt.  44] 

To  His  WIFE 
[STAYING  WITH  THE  CARLYLES] 

CHELSEA,  LONDON,  October  27,  1847. 
Dear  Lidian: 

...  I  found  at  Liverpool  after  a  couple  of  days  a 
letter  which  had  been  once  there  seeking  me  (and  once 
returned  to  Manchester  before  it  reached  my  hands)  from 
Carlyle,  addressed  to  "R.  W.  E.,  on  the  instant  he  lands 
in  England,"  conveying  so  hearty  a  welcome  and  so  urgent 
an  invitation  to  house  and  hearth  that  I  could  no  more 
resist  than  I  could  gravitation;  and  finding  that  I  should 
not  be  wanted  for  a  week  in  the  lecture-rooms,  I  came 
hither  on  Monday,  and,  at  ten  at  night,  the  door  was 
opened  to  me  by  Jane  Carlyle,  and  the  man  himself  was 
behind  her  with  a  lamp  in  the  entry.  They  were  very 
little  changed  from  their  old  selves  of  fourteen  years  ago 
(in  August),  when  I  left  them  at  Craigenputtock. 

"Well/'  said  Carlyle,  "here  we  are,  shovelled  together 
again."  The  floodgates  of  his  talk  are  quickly  opened, 
and  the  river  is  a  great  and  constant  stream.  We  had 
large  communication  that  night  until  nearly  one  o'clock, 
and  at  breakfast  next  morning  it  began  again.  At  noon 
or  later  we  went  together,  Carlyle  and  I,  to  Hyde  Park 
and  the  palaces  (about  two  miles  from  here),  to  the 
National  Gallery,  and  to  the  Strand, — Carlyle  melting 
all  Westminster  and  London  down  into  his  talk  and 
laughter  as  he  walked.  We  came  back  to  dinner  at  five 
or  later;  then  Dr.  Carlyle  came  in  and  spent  the  evening, 
which  again  was  long  by  the  clock,  but  had  no  other 
measures.  Here  in  this  house  we  breakfast  about  nine; 
Carlyle  is  very  apt,  his  wife  says,  to  sleep  till  ten  or 
eleven,  if  he  has  no  company.  An  immense  talker  he  is, 
and  altogether  as  extraordinary  in  his  conversation  as  in 
his  writing, — I  think  even  more  so.  You  will  never  dis- 
cover his  real  vigor  and  range,  or  how  much  more  he 
might  do  than  he  has  ever  done,  without  seeing  him.  I 
find  my  few  hours'  discourse  with  him  in  Scotland,  long 
since,  gave  me  not  enough  knowledge  of  him,  and  I  have 
now  at  last  been  taken  by  surprise.  .  .  .  Carlyle  and 
his  wife  live  on  beautiful  terms.  Nothing  can  be  more 


.i:t.  44]         EALPH    WALDO    EMERSON  265 

engaging  than  their  ways,  and  in  her  bookcase  all  his 
books  are  inscribed  to  her,  as  they  came,  from  year  to 
year,  each  with  some  significant  lines. 

But  you  will  wish  to  hear  more  of  my  adventures,  which 
I  must  hasten  to  record.  On  Wednesday,  at  the  National 
Gallery,  Mrs.  Bancroft  greeted  me  with  the  greatest  kind- 
ness, and  insisted  on  presenting  me  to  Mr.  Rogers,  who 
chanced  to  come  into  the  gallery  with  ladies.  Mr.  Rogers 
invited  me  to  breakfast,  with  Mrs.  B.,  at  his  house  on 
Friday.  .  .  .  The  smoke  of  London,  through  which  the 
sun  rarely  penetrates,  gives  a  dusky  magnificence  to  these 
immense  piles  of  building  in  the  west  part  of  the  city, 
which  makes  my  walking  rather  dream-like.  Martin's 
pictures  of  Babylon,  etc.,  are  faithful  copies  of  the  west 
part  of  London;  light,  darkness,  architecture,  and  all. 
Friday  morning  at  half  past  nine  I  presented  myself  at 
Mr.  Bancroft's  door,  90  Eaton  Square,  which  was  opened 
by  Mr.  Bancroft  himself!  in  the  midst  of  servants  whom 
that  man  of  eager  manners  thrust  aside,  saying  he  would 
open  his  own  door  for  me.  He  was  full  of  goodness  and 
of  talk.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Bancroft  appeared,  and  we  rode  in 
her  carriage  to  Mr.  Rogers'  house.  .  .  .  Mr.  Rogers  re- 
ceived us  with  cold,  quiet,  indiscriminate  politeness,  and 
entertained  us  with  abundance  of  anecdote,  which  Mrs. 
Bancroft  very  skilfully  drew  out  of  him,  about  people 
more  or  less  interesting  to  me.  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Byron, 
Wellington,  Talleyrand,  Mme.  de  Stael,  Lafayette,  Fox, 
Burke,  and  crowds  of  high  men  and  women  had  talked 
and  feasted  in  these  rooms  in  which  we  sat,  and  which 
are  decorated  with  every  precious  work.  ...  I  think  it 
must  be  the  chief  private  show  of  London,  this  man's  col- 
lection. But  I  will  net  bore  you  with  any  more  particu- 
lars. From  this  house  Mrs.  Bancroft. carried  me  to  the 
cloister  of  Westminster  Abbey  and  to  the  Abbey  itself, 
and  then  insisted  on  completing  her  bounties  by  carrying 
me  in  her  coach  to  Carlyle's  door  at  Chelsea,  a  very  long 
way.  ...  At  five  P.M.  yesterday,  after  spending  four 
complete  days  with  my  friends,  I  took  the  fast  train  for 
Liverpool,  and  came  hither,  212  miles,  in  six  hours ;  which 
is  nearly  twice  our  railway  speed.  In  Liverpool  I  drank 
tea  last  Saturday  night  with  James  Martineau,  and  heard 
him  preach  on  Sunday  night  last.  He  is  a  sincere,  sensi- 


266  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE         [j£t.  36 

ble,  good  man,  and  though  greatly  valued  as  a  preacher, 
yet  I  thought  him  superior  to  his  books  and  his  preach- 
ing. I  have  seen  Mr.  Ireland,  also,  at  Manchester  on  my 
way  to  London,  and  his  friends.  It  seems  I  am  to  read 
six  lectures  in  this  town  in  three  weeks,  and  at  the  same 
time  three  lectures  in  each  week  in  Manchester,  on  other 
evenings.  When  this  service  is  ended  I  may  have  as  many 
new  engagements  as  I  like,  they  tell  me.  I  am  to  begin 
at  Manchester  next  Tuesday  evening. 

November  1,  .Tuesday  evening.  I  am  heartily  tired  of 
Liverpool.  I  am  oppressed  by  the  seeing  of  such  multi- 
tudes: there  is  a  fierce  strength  here  in  all  the  streets; 
the  men  are  bigger  and  solider  far  than  our  people,  more 
stocky,  both  men  and  women,  and  with  a  certain  fixed- 
ness and  determination  in  each  person's  air,  that  dis- 
criminates them  from  the  sauntering  gait  and  roving 
eyes  of  Americans.  In  America  you  catch  the  eye  of 
every  one  you  meet;  here  you  catch  no  eye,  almost.  The 
axes  of  an  Englishman's  eyes  are  united  to  his  backbone. 
.  .  .  Yesterday  morning  I  got  your  welcome  letter  (by 
Mr.  Ireland).  I  am  greatly  contented  to  know  that  all 
is  so  well  with  you.  .  .  . 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 
WALDO  E. 

|>Et  36]       NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

1804-1864 

To  HIS  SISTER 

[BROOK  FARM  NEWS] 

BROOK  FARM,  WEST  ROXBURY,  May  3,  1841. 
As  the  weather  precludes  all  possibility  of  ploughing, 
hoeing,  sowing,  and  other  such  operations,  I  bethink  me 
that  you  may  have  no  objections  to  hear  something  of 
my  whereabout  and  whatabout.  You  are  to  know,  then, 
that  I  took  up  my  abode  here  on  the  12th  ultimo,  in  the 
midst  of  a  snow-storm,  which  kept  us  all  idle  for  a  day 
or  two.  At  the  first  glimpse  of  fair  weather,  Mr.  Ripley 
summoned  us  into  the  cow-yard,  and  introduced  me  to 
an  instrument  with  four  prongs,  commonly  entitled  a 
dung-fork.  With  this  tool  I  have  already  assisted  to 
load  twenty  or  thirty  carts  of  manure,  and  shall  take 


Mt.  36]        NATHANIEL   HAWTHOKNE  267 

part  in  loading  nearly  three  hundred  more.  Besides,  I 
have  planted  potatoes  and  pease,  cut  straw  and  hay  for 
the  cattle,  and  done  various  other  mighty  works.  This 
very  morning  I  milked  three  cows,  and  I  milk  two  or 
three  every  night  and  morning.  The  weather  has  been 
so  unfavorable  that  we  have  worked  comparatively  little 
in  the  fields;  but,  nevertheless,  I  have  gained  strength 
wonderfully, — grown  quite  a  giant,  in  fact, — and  can  do 
a  day's  work  without  the  slightest  inconvenience.  In 
short,  I  am  transformed  into  a  complete  farmer. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life,  and  as  secluded  as  if  it  were  a  hundred  miles 
from  any  city  or  village.  There  are  woods,  in  which  we 
can  ramble  all  day  without  meeting  anybody  or  scarcely 
seeing  a  house.  Our  house  stands  apart  from  the  main 
road,  so  that  we  are  not  troubled  even  with  passengers 
looking  at  us.  Once  in  a  while  we  have  a  transcendental 
visitor,  such  as  Mr.  Alcott;  but  generally  we  pass  whole 
days  without  seeing  a  single  face,  save  those  of  the 
brethren.  The  whole  fraternity  eat  together;  and  such  a 
delectable  way  of  life  has  never  been  seen  on  earth  since 
the  days  of.  the  early  Christians.  We  get  up  at  half -past 
four,  breakfast  at  half-past  six,  dine  at  half-past  twelve, 
and  go  to  bed  at  nine. 

The  thin  frock  which  you  made  for  me  is  considered 
a  most  splendid  article,  and  I  should  not  wojider  if  it 
were  to  become  the  summer  uniform  of  the  Community. 
I  have  a  thick  frock,  likewise;  but  it  is  rather  deficient 
in  grace,  though  extremely  warm  and  comfortable.  I 
wear  a  tremendous  pair  of  cowhide  boots,  with  soles  two 
inches  thick, — of  course,  when  I  come  to  see  you  I  shall 
wear  my  farmer's  dress. 

We  shall  be  very  much  occupied  during  most  of  this 
month,  ploughing  and  planting;  so  that  I  doubt  whether 
you  will  see  me  for  two  or  three  weeks.  You  have  the 
portrait  by  this  time,  I  suppose;  so  you  can  very  well 
dispense  with  the  original.  When  you  write  to  me  (which 
I  beg  you  will  do  soon),  direct  your  letter  to  West  Rox- 
bury,  as  there  are  two  post-offices  in  the  town.  I  would 
write  more,  but  William  Allen  is  going  to  the  village, 
and  must  have  this  letter.  So  good-by. 

NATH.  HAWTHORNE,  Ploughman. 

' 


268  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE        [^Et.  49 

[>Et.  49] 

TO    G.     S.    HlLLARD 

["THE  MISERABLE  PINCH  is  OVER"] 

LIVERPOOL,  Dec.  9,  1853. 
Dear  Eillard  — 

I  herewith  send  you  a  draft  on  Ticknor  for  the  sum 
(with  interest  included)  which  was  so  kindly  given  me 
by  unknown  friends,  through  you,  about  four  years  ago. 

I  have  always  hoped  and  intended  to  do  this,  from 
the  first  moment  when  I  made  up  my  mind  to  accept 
the  money.  It  would  not  have  been  right  to  speak  of 
this  purpose  before  it  was  in  my  power  to  accomplish 
it;  but  it  has  never  been  out  of  my  mind  for  a  single 
day,  nor  hardly,  I  think,  for  a  single  working  hour.  I 
am  most  happy  that  this  loan  (as  I  may  fairly  call  it, 
at  this  moment)  can  now  be  repaid  without  the  risk 
on  my  part  of  leaving  my  wife  and  children  utterly 
destitute.  I  should  have  done  it  sooner;  but  I  felt  that 
it  would  be  selfish  to  purchase  the  great  satisfaction  for 
myself,  at  any  fresh  risk  to  them.  We  are  not  rich, 
nor  are  we  ever  likely  to  be;  but  the  miserable  pinch 
is  over. 

The  friends  who  were  so  generous  to  me  must  not 
suppose  that  I  have  not  felt  deeply  grateful,  nor  that 
my  delight  at  relieving  myself  from  this  pecuniary  obli- 
gation is  of  any  ungracious  kind.  I  have  been  grateful 
all  along,  and  am  more  so  now  than  ever.  This  act  of 
kindness  did  me  an  unspeakable  amount  of  good;  for 
it  came  when  I  most  needed  to  be  assured  that  anybody 
thought  it  worth  while  to  keep  me  from  sinking.  And 
it  did  me  even  greater  good  than  this,  in  making  me 
sensible  of  the  need  of  sterner  efforts  than  my  former 
ones,  in  order  to  establish  a  right  for  myself  to  live 
and  be  comfortable.  For  it  is  my  creed  (and  was  so 
even  at  that  wretched  time)  that  a  man  has  no  claim 
upon  his  fellow-creatures,  beyond  bread  and  water,  and 
a  grave,  unless  he  can  win  it  by  his  own  strength  or 
skill.  But  so  much  the  kinder  were  those  unknown 
friends  whom  I  thank  again  with  all  my  heart. 


[JEt.29]    NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS 

1806-1867 

To    MlSS    MlTFORD 

["STEEPED  TO   THE   LIPS   IN   LONDON   SOCIETY"] 

ATHEN.EUM,  LONDON,  April  22,  1835. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — 

I  am  anxious  to  see  your  play  and  your  next  book, 
and  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  the  drama  is  your  pied, 
though  I  think  laurels,  and  spreading  ones,  are  sown 
for  you  in  every  department  of  writing.  Nobody  ever 
wrote  better  prose,  and  what  could  not  the  author  of 
"Rienzi"  do  in  verse  ?  I  should  like  to  talk  over  this 
with  you. 

For  myself  I  am  far  from  considering  myself  regu- 
larly embarked  in  literature,  and  if  I  can  live  without  it, 
or  ply  any  other  vocation,  shall  vote  it  a  thankless  trade, 
and  save  my  "entusymussy"*  for  my  wife  and  children — 
when  I  get  them.  I  am  at  present  steeped  to  the  lips 
in  London  society,  going  to  everything,  from  Devon- 
shire House  to  a  publisher's  dinner  in  Paternoster  Row, 
and  it  is  not  a  bad  olla  podrida  of  life  and  manners.  I 
dote  on  "England  and  true  English,"  and  was  never  so 
happy  or  so  at  a  loss  to  find  a  minute  for  care  or  fore- 
thought. 

I  really  have  ten  thousand  things  I  wish  to  write  about 
or  talk  about  to  you;  but  a  letter  is  a  needle's  point  to 
dance  upon,  and  I"  must  keep  all  my  flourishes  till  I  see 
you.  No  letter  is  so  small,  however,  that  I  cannot  ex- 
press in  it  my  happiness  and  pride  in  your  friendship, 
and  I  beg  you  to  believe,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  that  your 
kindness  is  appreciated  and  your  regard  sought  by  no  one 
more  sensitively  than, 

Faithfully  and  always  yours, 

N.  P.  WILLIS. 

*  Enthusiasm. 


269 


L^Et.25]  JOHN    STEELING 

1806-1844 

To    HIS    MOTHER 

[A   HURRICANE  IN   THE   WEST  INDIES] 

BRIGHTON,  ST.  VINCENT, 

28th  August,  1831. 
My  dear  Mother, — 

The  packet  came  in  yesterday;  bringing  me  some 
Newspapers,  a  Letter  from  my  Father,  and  one  from 
Anthony,  with  a  few  lines  from  you.  I  wrote,  some  days 
ago,  a  hasty  Note  to  my  Father,  on  the  chance  of  its 
reaching  you  through  Grenada  sooner  than  any  com- 
munication by  the  packet;  and  in  it  I  spoke  of  the  great 
misfortune  which  had  befallen  this  Island  and  Barbadoes, 
but  from  which  all  those  you  take  an  interest  in  have 
happily  escaped  unhurt. 

From  the  day  of  our  arrival  in  the  West  Indies  until 
Thursday  the  llth  instant,  which  will  long  be  a  memo- 
rable day  with  us,  I  had  been  doing  my  best  to  get  our- 
selves established  comfortably;  and  I  had  at  last  bought 
the  materials  for  making  some  additions  to  the  house. 
But  on  the  morning  I  have  mentioned,  all  that  I  had 
exerted  myself  to  do,  nearly  all  the  property  both  of 
Susan  and  myself,  and  the  very  house  we  lived  in,  were 
suddenly  destroyed  by  a  visitation  of  Providence  far 
more  terrible  than  any  I  have  ever  witnessed. 

When  Susan  came  from  her  room,  to  breakfast,  at 
eight  o'clock,  I  pointed  out  to  her  the  extraordinary  height 
and  violence  of  the  surf,  and  the  singular  appearance 
of  the  clouds  of  heavy  rain  sweeping  down  the  valleys 
before  us.  At  this  time  I  had  so  little  apprehension  of 
what  was  coming,  that  I  talked  of  riding  down  to  the 
shore  when  the  storm  should  abate,  as  I  had  never  seen 
so  fierce  a  sea.  In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  House- 
Negroes  came  in,  to  close  the  outside  shutters  of  the 
windows.  They  knew  that  the  plantain-trees  about  the 
Negro  houses  had  been  blown  down  in  the  night;  and 
had  told  the  maid-servant  Tyrrell,  but  I  had  heard 
nothing  of  it.  A  very  few  minutes  after  the  closing  of 
the  windows,  I  found  that  the  shutters  of  Tyrrell's  room, 
at  the  south  and  commonly  the  most  sheltered  end  of 

270 


^Et.  25]  JOHN   STERLING  271 

the  House,  were  giving  way.  I  tried  to  tie  them;  but 
the  silk  handkerchief  which  I  used  soon  gave  way;  and 
as  I  had  neither  hammer,  boards,  nor  nails  in  the  house, 
I  could  do  nothing  more  to  keep  out  the  tempest.  I 
found,  in  pushing  at  the  leaf  of  the  shutter,  that  the 
wind  resisted,  more  as  if  it  had  been  a  stone  wall  or  a 
mass  of  iron,  than  a  mere  current  of  air.  There  were 
one  or  two  people  outside  trying  to  fasten  the  windows, 
and  I  went  out  to  help;  but  we  had  no  tools  at  hand: 
one  man  was  blown  down  the  hill  in  front  of  the  house, 
before  my  face;  and  the  other  and  myself  had  great 
difficulty  in  getting  back  again  inside  the  door.  The 
rain  on  my  face  and  hands  felt  like  so  much  small  shot 
from  a  gun.  There  was  great  exertion  necessary  to  shut 
the  door  of  the  house. 

The  windows  at  the  end  of  the  large  room  were  now 
giving  way;  and  I  suppose  it  was  about  nine  o'clock, 
when  the  hurricane  burst  them  in,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
discharge  from  a  battery  of  heavy  cannon.  The  shutters 
were  forced  open,  and  the  wind  fastened  them  back  to 
the  wall;  and  then  the  panes  of  glass  were  smashed 
by  the  mere  force  of  the  gale,  without  anything  having 
touched  them.  Even  now  I  was  not  at  all  sure  the 
house  would  go.  My  books,  I  saw,  were  lost;  for  the 
rain  poured  past  the  book-cases,  as  if  it  had  been  the 
Colonarie  River.  But  we  carried  a  good  deal  of  furni- 
ture into  the  passage  at  the  entrance;  we  sat  Susan 
there  on  a  sofa,  and  the  Black  Housekeeper  was  even 
attempting  to  get  her  some  breakfast.  The  house,  how- 
ever, began  to  shake  so  violently,  and  the  rain  was  so 
searching,  that  she  could  not  stay  there  long.  She  went 
into  her  own  room;  and  I  stayed  to  see  what  could 
be  done. 

Under  the  fore  part  of  the  house,  there  are  cellars 
built  of  stone,  but  not  arched.  To  these,  however,  there 
was  no  access  except  on  the  outside;  and  I  knew  from 
my  own  experience  that  Susan  could  not  have  gone  a 
step  beyond  the  door,  without  being  carried  away  by  the 
storm,  and  probably  killed  on  the  spot  The  only  chance 
seemed  to  be  that  of  breaking  through  the  floor.  But 
when  the  old  Cook  and  myself  resolved  on  this,  we  found 
that  we  had  no  instrument  with  which  it  would  be  pos- 


272  JOHN    STEELING  [^Et.  25 

sible  to  do  it.  It  was  now  clear  that  we  had  only  God 
to  trust  in.  The  front  windows  were  giving  way  with 
successive  crashes,  and  the  floor  shook  as  you  may  have 
seen  a  carpet  on  a  gusty  day  in  London.  I  went  into 
our  bed-room;  where  I  found  Susan,  Tyrrell,  and  a  little 
Coloured  girl  of  seven  or  eight  years  old;  and  told  them 
that  we  should  probably  not  be  alive  in  half  an  hour. 
I  could  have  escaped,  if  I  had  chosen  to  go  alone,  by 
crawling  on  the  ground  either  into  the  kitchen,  a  sepa- 
rate stone  building  at  no  great  distance,  or  into  the  open 
fields  away  from  trees  or  houses;  but  Susan  could  not 
have  gone  a  yard.  She  became  quite  calm  when  she 
knew  the  worst;  and  she  sat  on  my  knee  in  what  seemed 
the  safest  corner  of  the  room,  while  every  blast  was 
bringing  nearer  and  nearer  the  moment  of  our  seem- 
ingly certain  destruction. 

The  house  was  under  two  parallel  roofs;  and  the  one 
next  the  sea,  which  sheltered  the  other,  and  us  who  were 
under  the  other,  went  off,  I  suppose  about  ten  o'clock. 
.  .  .  I  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  holding  my  Wife; 
and  Tyrrell  and  the  little  Black  child  were  close  to  us. 
We  had  given  up  all  notion  of  surviving;  and  only 
waited  for  the  fall  of  the  roof  to  perish  together. 

Before  long  the  roof  went.  Most  of  the  materials, 
however,  were  carried  clear  away :  one  of  the  large  couples 
was  caught  on  the  bed-post,  .  .  .  and  held  fast  by  the 
iron  spike;  while  the  end  of  it  hung  over  our  heads:  had 
the  beam  fallen  an  inch  on  either  side  of  the  bed-post, 
it  must  necessarily  have  crushed  us.  The  walls  did  not 
go  with  the  roof;  and  we  remained  for  half  an  hour, 
alternately  praying  to  God,  and  watching  them  as  they 
bent,  creaked,  and  shivered  before  the  storm. 

Tyrrell  and  the  child,  when  the  roof  was  off,  made  their 
way  through  the  remains  of  the  partition,  to  the  outer 
door;  and  with  the  help  of  the  people  who  were  looking 
for  us,  got  into  the  kitchen.  A  good  while  after  they 
were  gone,  and  before  we  knew  anything  of  their  fate, 
a  Negro  came  suddenly  upon  us,  and  the  sight  of  him 
gave  us  a  hope  of  safety.  When  the  people  learned 
that  we  were  in  danger,  and  while  their  own  huts  were 
flying  about  their  ears,  they  crowded  to  help  us;  and 
the  old  Cook  urged  them  on  to  our  rescue.  He  made 


32]         HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW  273 

five  attempts,  after  saving  Tyrrell,  to  get  to  us;  and 
four  times  he  was  blown  down.  The  fifth  time  he,  and 
the  Negro  we  first  saw,  reached  the  house.  The  space 
they  had  to  traverse  was  not  above  twenty  yards  of  level 
ground,  if  so  much.  In  another  minute  or  two,  the 
Overseers  and  a  crowd  of  Negroes,  most  of  whom  had 
come  on  their  hands  and  knees,  were  surrounding  us ; 
and  with  their  help,  Susan  was  carried  round  to  the 
end  of  the  house;  where  they  broke-open  the  cellar  win- 
dow, and  placed  her  in  comparative  safety.  The  force 
of  the  hurricane  was,  by  this  time,  a  good  deal  dimin- 
ished, or  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  stand  be- 
fore it. 

But  the  wind  was  still  terrific;  and  the  rain  poured 
into  the  cellars  through  the  floor  above.  Susan,  Tyrrell, 
and  a  crowd  of  Negroes  remained  under  it,  for  more  than 
two  hours:  and  I  was  long  afraid  that  the  wet  and  cold 
would  kill  her,  if  she  did  not  perish  more  violently. 
Happily  we  had  wine  and  spirits  at  hand,  and  she  was 
much  nerved  by  a  tumbler  of  claret.  As  soon  as  I 
saw  her  in  comparative  security,  I  went  off  with  one  of 
the  Overseers  down  to  the  Works,  where  the  greater 
number  of  the  Negroes  were  collected,  that  we  might 
see  what  could  be  done  for  them.  They  were  wretched 
enough,  but  no  one  was  hurt;  and  I  ordered  them  a 
dram  apiece,  which  seemed  to  give  them  a  good  deal  of 
consolation.  ...  I  am  ever,  dearest  Mother, 

Your  grateful  and  affectionate, 

JOHN  STERLING. 


.  32] 
HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

1807-1882     - 
To  GEORGE  W.   GREEN 
["HYPERION";  DOINGS  OF  AUTHORS] 

July  23,  1839. 

Three  pages  of  fault-finding  you  call  a  letter.  I  don't. 
Find  fault  to  your  heart's  content;  but  be  more  con- 
centrated. There  you  are  in  Rome,  with  all  the  world 
marching  and  countermarching  before  you,  and  you  have 


274  HENRY   W.   LONGEELLOW         [^Et.  32 

no  more  to  say  than  if  you  were  in  East  Greenwich. 
And  when  I  want  particulars  about  yourself,  you  laugh 
in  my  face,  and  then  fill  a  whole  page  with  broken 
columns,  moonlight,  and  the  Coliseum;  as  if  I  were  a 
female  cousin,  and  kept  an  album.  This  is  not  fair;  I 
am  regularly  savage  about  it.  Now  having  disgorged 
this  crude  mass,  let  us  pass  to  more  important  matters. 
Is  not  Sumner  a  glorious  youth? — with  a  halo  round  his 
head,  as  it  were.  His  presence  is  beneficent,  and  we 
shall  all  await  his  return  with  fluttering  impatience.  A 
warm-hearted,  manly  fellow,  and  an  ardent  friend.  I 
know  you  must  have  enjoyed  his  society. 

I  have  written  a  Romance  during  this  past  year.  The 
feelings  of  the  book  are  true;  the  events  of  the  story 
mostly  fictitious.  The  heroine,  of  course,  bears  a  resem- 
blance to  the  lady,  without  being  an  exact  portrait. 
There  is  no  betrayal  of  confidence,  no  real  scene  de- 
scribed. Hyperion  is  the  name  of  the  book,  not  of  the 
hero.  It  merely  indicates  that  here  is  the  life  of  one 
who  in  his  feelings  and  purposes  is  a  "son  of  Heaven 
and  Earth*"  and  who  though  obscured  by  clouds  yet 
"moves  on  high."  Further  than  this  the  name  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  book,  and  in  fact  is  mentioned  only 
once  in  the  course  of  it.  I  expect  to  be  mightily  abused. 
People  will  say  that  I  am  the  hero  of  my  own  romance, 
and  compare  myself  to  the  sun,  to  Hyperion  Apollo. 
This  is  not  so.  I  wish  only  to  embody  certain  feelings 
which  are  mine,  not  to  magnify  myself.  I  do  not  care 
for  abuse,  if  it  is  real,  manly,  hearty  abuse.  All  that 
I  fear  is  the  laudcftur  et  alget,  the  damnation  of  faint 
praise;  that  I  hope  to  avoid,  this  time. 

.  .  .  And  now  for  American  literature.  Hillhouse  is 
publishing  a  new  edition  of  his  poems.  Prescott  is 
writing  a  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico.  -  has 

published  a  poem  (  ?  ) — most  rabid  trash,  trash  with  a  tin 
pail  tied  to  its  tail.  Yet  Willis  says,  "If  God  ever  made 
a  poet,  it  is  -  — ."  Willis's  A  I'A'bri  is  a  collection  of 
letters  written  from  his  country-seat  on  the  Susque- 
hanna,  and  published  in  the  Mirror  as  "Letters  from 
under  a  Bridge;"  very  racy  and  beautiful.  Hillard  has 
in  the  press  a  new  and  beautiful  edition  of  Spenser, 
with  preface  and  notes  by  himself.  Eelton  is  busily  at 


Mt.  33]         HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW  275 

work  upon  a  translation  of  Menzel's  German  Literature. 
He  is  doing  it  finely.  New  York  is  becoming  more  and 
more  literary.  It  is  also  becoming  a  little  less  bigoted; 
Mr.  Brooks,  ci-devant  Unitarian  clergyman  in  Hingham, 
has  been  elected  Professor  of  Botany  in  the  New  York 
University.  Cooper,  the  novelist,  is  up  to  his  arm-pits 
in  law-suits, — libel  cases  against  the  editors  of  newspa- 
pers for  abusing  him.  Decidedly  a  disagreeable  indi- 
vidual !  Bulwerism  is  dying  out ;  Marryatism,  ditto. 
Dickens  reigns  supreme  as  the  popular  writer.  Bancroft 
has  written  a  violent  article  against  Goethe  in  the  Chris- 
tian Examiner.  Washington  Irving  is  writing  away  in 
the  Knickerbocker, — old  remnants,  odds  and  ends  about 
Sleepy  Hollow  and  Granada.  What  a  pity!  A  Miss 
Fuller  has  published  a  translation  of  "flunky"  Ecker- 
mann's  Conversations  with  Goethe.  Dr.  Bird,  a  new 
novel. 


[jEt.  33 

To  HIS  FATHER 
[THE  BROOK  FARM  EXPERIMENT]  . 

October  18,  1840. 

Since  I  last  wrote  you,  sundry  novelties  have  appeared 
in  this  quarter  of  the  world,  which  you  may  see  hinted 
at  in  the  papers.  They  are  among  the  moral  reforms 
of  the  day;  and  have  at  once  something  serious  and  some- 
thing comic  about  them.  You  probably  have  heard  of 
the  Non-Resistance  Society  in  Boston,  who  wish  to  fol- 
low out  literally  the  injunctions  "If  a  man  strike  you 
on  one  cheek,"  and  "If  a  man  take  away  your  cloak," 
etc.  One  of  the  chief  men  of  this  society  is  Mr.  Ed- 
mund Quincy,  second  son  of  our  President.  They  have 
now  called  a  convention,  inviting  people  of  all  creeds 
and  denominations  to  attend,  and  discuss  the  great  ques- 
tions, "What  is  the  Church,  the  Sabbath,  Religion?"  Not 
long  ago  there  was  a  similar  convention  held  in  Groton. 
The  first  resolution  was,  "Voted,  that  we  are  not  sec- 
tarian;" whereupon  discussion  arose  as  to  what  consti- 
tuted a  sect;  which  discussion  lasted  for  three  days, 
when  the  convention  adjourned.  Not  long  after,  came 


276  HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW         [Mt.  42 

up  from  Cape  Cod  u  new  sect  called  the  "Come-outers," 
who  formed  a  holy  alliance  with  the  Transcendentalists. 
Out  of  this  fermentation  of  mind  has  sprung  up  a 
new  plan;  namely,  to  form  a  community  to  be  called 
"The  Practical  Christians."  Each  individual  is  to  sub- 
scribe two  hundred  dollars,  and  each  family  one  thou- 
sand; a  farm  is  to  be  bought  near  Boston,  cottages  to  be 
built,  and  then  the  community  goes  to  work.  Every 
member  is  to  labor  three  hours  a  day;  the  remainder  of 
the  time  is  to  be  at  his  own  disposal.  There  is  no 
further  community  of  goods  than  this.  The  three  hours' 
labor  it  is  thought  will  feed,  clothe,  and  lodge  them  all; 
and  the  rest  of  the  time  is  to  be  devoted  to  the  fine  arts, 
music,  literature,  etc.,  etc.  I  hear  that  the  Rev.  George 
Ripley,  Mr.  Emerson,  Miss  Fuller,  and  other  prominent 
Transcendentalists  are  going  to  this  Land  of  Promise. 
Likewise  Mr.  Alcott,  the  author  of  "Orphic  Sayings"  in 
the  Dial;  though  I  fear  he  will  be  an  unprofitable  far- 
mer, for,  being  a  great  Grahamite,  he  refuses  to  put 
manure  on  the  land  he  now  cultivates  in  Concord,  think- 
ing it  too  stimulating!  What  will  be  the  final  result  of 
all  these  movements  it  is  impossible  to  foresee;  some 
good  end,  I  trust,  for  they  are  sincere  men,  and  have  a 
good  intent. 


.  42] 

To  CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON 

[NEWS  FOR  INDIA  FROM  NEW  ENGLAND] 

February  5,  1850. 

I  have  been  thinking  how  very  odd  and  outlandish 
anything  written  on  the  banks  of  Charles  River  must 
sound  when  read  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges;  and  how 
small  we  must  all  appear  to  you  who  are  personally  ac- 
quainted with  "the  Boundless  Krishna,  the  Valiant,"  and 
with  the  "Moonshees"  who  write  his  poems  for  him!  A 
magnificent  Oriental  idea  is  that, — feebly  put  in  practice 
in  England  by  Day  and  Martin,  and  in  New  England 
by  Simmons  of  Oak  Hall.  Yesterday  afternoon  I  was 
at  Shady  Hill.  Your  father  was  below  stairs  in  his 
study,  a  little  pale  from  his  late  illness;  and  the  whole 


-Et.  52]         HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW  277 

scene  wore  its  usual  sunny,  genial,  happy  aspect, — your 
portrait  looking  pensively  from  the  wall  toward  the  fire, 
as  if  "musing  while  it  burned."  Mr.  Sparks  was  there; 
and  we  all  talked  of  you  and  Ritchie,  and  walked  awhile 
beside  your  palanquins.  In  the  Craigie  House  is  noth- 
ing new.  Tom.  Appleton  is  in  England.  [In  Boston] 
Mrs.  Fanny  Kemble  is  reading  Shakespeare.  Charles 
Perkins  gives  matinees  musicales  at  No.  1  Tremoiit  Court, 
which  are  very  pleasant.  Mr.  Ticknor's  book  [History 
of  Spanish  Literature]  is  a  great  success.  Bowen  is  in 
very  hot  water  for  abusing  the  Magyars,  in  the  North 
American, — and  rather  likes  it.  Politics  are  raging  furi- 
ously,— the  hot  Southrons  blustering  as  usual,  but  I  trust 
to  no  effect.  There  is  no  danger  of  a  dissolution  of  the 
Union.  Therefore  be  not  alarmed  by  what  you  read  in 
the  newspapers. 

And  now,  dear  C.,  Namaraskam!  Sashtangam!  and 
whatever  may  be  the  Hindoo  for  "I  love  you."  Salute 
for  me  the  Sacred  River,  that  "flows  from  the  sweat  of 
Siva's  wife," — rather  an  uncomfortable  companion,  one 
would  think,  in  a  warm  climate.  Bring  home  the  two 
great  epics, — the  Ramayana  and  the  Mahabharata.  You 
will  regret  it  if  you  do  not.  Also,  from  Persia,  Zoroas- 
ter's Zend  A  vesta. 

[.Et,  52] 

To  EMILY  A 


[HIS  CHILDREN] 

NAHAXT,  August  18,  1859. 

Your  letter  followed  me  down  here  by  the  seaside, 
wrhere  I  am  passing  the  summer  with  my  three  little 
girls.  The  oldest  is  about  your  age;  but  as  little  girls' 
ages  keep  changing  every  year,  I  can  never  remember 
exactly  how  old  she  is,  and  have  to  ask  her  mamma, 
who  has  a  better  memory  than  I  have.  Her  name  is 
Alice;  I  never  forget  that.  She  is  a  nice  girl,  and  loves 
poetry  almost  as  much  as  you  do. 

The  second  is  Edith,  with  blue  eyes  and  beautiful 
golden  locks  which  I  sometimes  call  her  "nankeen  hair," 
to  make  her  laugh.  She  is  a  very  busy  little  woman, 
and  wears  gray  boots.  ..  , 


278  HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW         [Mt.  53 

The  youngest  is  Allegra;  which,  you  know,  means 
merry;  and  she  is  the  merriest  little  thing  you  ever  saw, 
— always  singing  and  laughing  all  over  the  house. 

These  are  my  three  little  girls,  and  Mr.  Read  has 
painted  them  all  in  one  picture,  which  I  hope  you  will 
see  some  day.  They  bathe  in  the  sea,  and  dig  in  the 
sand,  and  patter  about  the  piazza  all  day  long,  and  some- 
times go  to  see  .the  Indians  encamped  on  the  shore,  and 
buy  baskets  and  bows  and  arrows. 

I  do  not  say  anything  about  the  two  boys.  They  are 
such  noisy  fellows  it  is  of  no  use  to  talk  about  them. 

And  now,  dear  Miss  Emily,  give  my  love  to  your  papa, 
and  good-night,  with  a  kiss,  from  his  friend  and  yours. 


[  JEt.  53] 

To  JAMES  T.  FIELDS 

[A    FOLIO    FROM    A    LADY] 

CAMBRIDGE,  September  20,  1860. 

I  have  no  end  of  poems  sent  me  for  "candid  judg- 
ment" and  opinion.  Four  are  on  hand  at  this  moment. 
A  large  folio  came  last  night  from  a  lady.  It  has  been 
chasing  me  round  the  country;  has  been  in  East  Cam- 
bridge and  in  West  Cambridge;  and  finally  came  by  the 
hands  of  policeman  Sanderson  to  my  house.  I  wish  he 
had  "waived  examination  and  committed  it" — to  mem- 
ory. What  shall  I  do?  These  poems  weaken  me  very 
much.  It  is  like  so  much  water  added  to  the  spirit 
of  poetry. 


[Mt.  53] 

To  JAMES  T.  FIELDS 

[AN     UMBRELLA     FOR     LENDING] 

March  3,  1863. 

I  was  ashamed  this  morning  to  send  the  expressman 
to  your  door  in  quest  of  an  old  umbrella,  not  unlike  that 
which  accompanied  and  consoled  the  exiled  king  of  France 
in  his  flight  to  England.  Nevertheless,  I  did  send;  for 
it  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  King  Cotton,  and  is  of  that 


^£t.  57]         HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW  279 

particularly  audacious  kind  that  never  says  "Lost."  In 
the  hands  of  a  modern  "sensuous"  poet  the  handle  would 
become  pearl  (daughter,  not  mother  of)  and  the  rest 
would  be  of  a  "tissue  from  the  looms  of  Samarcand." 
Finally,  it  is  the  one  I  keep  to  lend'  to  lecturers  at  the 
Lowell  Institute,  and  the  like;  and,  though  very  dissi- 
pated, is  worth  reclaiming. 

Accept  my  apology  and  believe  me,  or  not, 

Yours  truly. 


.  57] 

To  GEORGE  W.  GREENE 
[DANTE'S  "INFERNO"] 

March  25,  1864. 

This  is  a  lovely  day,  as  you  are  well  aware.  More- 
over, it  is  Good  Friday,  as  you  are  equally  well  aware; 
and  leaving  aside  the  deeper  meaning  of  the  day,  I  will 
tell  you  something  of  which  I  suspect  you  are  not  aware. 
Have  you  remembered,  or  noticed,  that  the  days  and 
dates  of  1864  correspond  with  those  of  the  Dantesque 
1300?  —  so  that  in  both  years  Good  Friday  falls  on  the 
25th  of  March.  Five  hundred  and  sixty-four  years  ago 
to-day,  Dante  descended  to  the  cittd  dolente;  and  to-day, 
with  the  first  two  cantos  of  the  Inferno  in  my  hand,  I 
descended  among  the  printers'  devils,  —  the  malebolge  of 
the  University  Press.  Is  it  a  good  omen?  I  know  not. 
But  something  urges  me  on  and  on  and  on  with  this 
work,  and  will  not  let  me  rest;  though  I  often  hear  the 
warning  voice  from  within,  — 

Me  degno  a  ci6  n£  io  nfe  altri  crede. 

Did  you  ever  notice  the  beautiful  and  endless  aspiration 
so  artistically  and  silently  suggested  by  Dante  in  closing 
each  part  of  his  poem  with  the  word  stelle?  Did  any 
Italian  commentator  ever  find  it  out?  Among  English 
translators,  I  belie\e  Cayley  was  the  first  to  remark  it. 


[JEt.  58]     JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

1807-1892 

To  LUCY   LARCOM 

[DECLINING  AN  INVITATION] 

25th  3d  mo.,  1866. 

Believe  me,  Lucy  L'arcom,  it  gives  me  real  sorrow 
That  I  cannot  take  my  carpet-bag  and  go  to  town  to- 
morrow ; 
But  I'm  "snow-bound,"  and  cold  on  cold  like  layers  of 

an  onion 
Have  piled  my  back  and  weighed  me  down  as  with  the 

pack  of  Bunyan. 
The  northeas't  wind  is  damper  and  the  northwest  wind 

is   colder, 

Or  else  the  matter  simply  is  that  I  am  growing  older. 
And  then  I  dare  not  trust  a  moon  seen  over  one's  left 

shoulder, 
As  I  saw  this  with  slender  horns  caught  in  a  west  hill 

pine, 
As   on    a    Stamboul   minaret   curves   the   arch-impostor's 

sign,— 

So  I  must  stay  in  Amesbury,  and  let  you  go  your  way, 
And  guess  what  colors  greet  your  eyes,  what  shapes  your 

steps  delay; 
What  pictured  forms  of  heathen  lore,  of  god  and  goddess 

please  you, 

What  idol  graven  "images  you  bend  your  wicked  knees  to. 
But  why  should  I  of  evil  dream,  well  knowing  at  your 

head  goes, 
That  flower  of  Christian  womanhood,  our  dear  good  Anna 

Meadows. 
She'll  be   discreet,  I'm  sure,   although   once   in   a  freak 

romantic 
She    flung    the    Doge's    bridal    ring    and    married    ''The    . 

Atlantic." 

And,  spite  of  all  appearances,  like  the  woman  in  a  shoe 
She's  got  so  many  "Young  Folks"  now,  she  don't  know 

what  to  do. 
But  I  must  say  I  think  it  strange  that  thee  and  Mrs. 

Spaulding, 
Whose  lives  with  Calvin's  five-railed  creed  have  been  so 

tightly  walled  in, 

280 


.Et.  59]     JOHN   GREEKLEAF    WHITTIER  281 

Should  quit  your  Puritan  homes,  and  take  the  pains  to  go 
So   far,   with  malice   aforethought,   to    "walk   in    a   vain 

show !" 

Did   Emmons   hunt   for   pictures?      Was    Jonathan    Ed- 
wards peeping 
Into  the  chambers  of  imagery  with  maids  for  Thormuz 

weeping  ? 
Ah  well!  the  times  are  sadly  changed,  and  I  myself  am 

feeling 
The  wicked  world  my  Quaker  coat  from  off  my  shoulders 

peeling. 
God  grant  that  in  the  strange  new  sea  of  change  wherein 

we  swim, 
We  still  may  keep  the  good  old  plank,  of  simple  faith 

in  Him! 


[^Et.59]  To   JAMES    T.   FIELDS 

["SNOW-BOUND"] 

[1866?] 

I  thank  thee  for  looking  over  my  poem.  I  have  acted 
as  well  as  I  could  on  thy  hints,  but  I  have  left  one 
ubad  rhyme,"  heard  and  word,  to  preserve  my  well-known 
character  in  that  respect.  I  don't  know  about  the  por- 
trait. At  first  thought,  it  strikes  me  that  it  would  be 
rather  out  of  place  at  the  head  of  a  new  venture  in 
rhyme.  I  don't  want  to  run  the  risk  of  being  laughed 
at.  However,  do  as  thee  likes  about  it.  Put  thyself  in 
the  place  of  Mrs.  Grundy,  and  see  if  it  will  be  safe  for 
any  "counterfeit  presentment"  to  brave  the  old  lady's 
criticism.  I  think  I  have  not  injured  the  piece  by  my 
alterations, — that  on  the  second  page  of  the  proof  is 
rather  improved  than  otherwise;  and  I  have  added  two 
lines  to  my  slightly  lackadaisical  reference  to  the  boys 
and  girls,  in  road-breaking.  Don't  send  the  poem  to 
me  again.  I  shall  tear  it  ajl  to  pieces  with  alterations, 
if  thee  do.  In  the  picture  of  the  old  home,  the  rim  of 
hemlocks,  etc.,  at  the  foot  of  the  high  hill  which  rises 
abruptly  to  the  left,  is  not  seen.  They  would  make  a 
far  better  snow  picture  than  the  oaks  which  are  in  the 
view.  Don't  put  the  poem  on  tinted  or  fancy  paper. 
Let  it  be  white  as  th'e  snow  it  tells  of. 


282  JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER     [.Et.  77 

[  JEt.  77] 

To   ANNIE   FIELDS 
["THE  SURVIVORS  OF  A  LOST  CREW"] 

10th  mo.,  2,  1885. 

I  have  been  thinking  of  thy  gracious  and  generous 
proposal  of  hospitality.  It  has  made  me  very  happy, 
though  I  have  not  been  able  to  see  how  I  can  avail 
myself  of  it.  I  find  that  I  am  unable  to  bear  the  ex- 
citement of  city  life  for  any  length  of  time,  however 
carefully  I  may  be  shielded  by  my  friends.  I  am  un- 
happily notorious,  and  cannot  hide  myself.  My  deafness 
makes  me  confused  and  uncomfortable  when  strangers 
are  present.  The  great  and  really  painful  effort  I  am 
compelled  to  make  when  in  company,  to  listen  and  try 
to  understand,  and  make  fitting  replies,  and  the  uncer- 
tainty I  feel,  when  I  venture  to  speak,  whether  I  have 
heard  aright — all  this  affects  my  nerves,  and  costs  me 
nights  of  sleeplessness  and  days  of  weariness.  In  fact 
I  am  what  the  Turks  call  "a  cut-off  one,"  so  far  as  society 
is  concerned.  ...  As  soon  as  it  is  known  that  I  am  in 
your  premises  a  steady  stream  of  interviewers,  autograph- 
hunters,  and  people  with  missions  will  flow  in  upon  you. 
It  would  be  like  having  a  waif  from  Barnum's  Museum 
shut  up  in  your  library,  and  people  coming  in  to  see 
what  it  looks  like.  It  would  make  your  life  miserable. 
Sarah's  dog  could  not  keep  them  off.  You  would  have 
to  get  out  a  writ  of  ejectment  and  set  me  and  my  carpet- 
bag into  the  street — and  yet  how  I  wish  I  could  say 
"yes"!  I  thank  the  good  Providence  that  has  given  me 
such  a  friend,  dear  as  Vittoria  Colonna  to  Michael  An- 
gelo.  I  wish  I  could  look  forward  to  the  enjoyment  of 
such  friendship  for  many  years  in  this  life,  but  when 
one  is  approaching  fourscore  that  is  not  to  be  expected. 
Though  for  that  matter,  I  see  that  Senator  Hoar,  in  his 
great  speech  of  day  before  yesterday  at  Springfield,  took 
occasion  to  deny  the  self-evident  fact  that  I  am  an  old 
man !  .  .  .  I  had  a  rare  good  visit  from  Dr.  Holmes  and 
his  wife  the  other  day.  We  two  old  boys  wandered  about 
in  the  woods,  talking  of  many  things — half  merry,  half 
sad.  We  were  stranded  mariners,  the  survivors  of  a 
lost  crew,  warming  ourselves  at  a  fire  kindled  from  the 


uEt.  34]  EDGAR   ALLAN   POE  283 

wreck  of  our  vessel.  .  .  .  The  woods  here  are  blazing 
with  color,  but  I  fail  to  see  the  red  against  the  green. 
Both  look  the  same.  But  the  walnuts  and  maples  are 
glorious,  making  sunshine  when  there  is  none  in  the 
heavens. 

[JEt..34]  EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 

1809-1849 
To  F.  W.  THOMAS  AND  J.  E.  Dow 

["SPREEIXG    UPON    AX    EXTENSIVE    SCALE"] 

PHILADELPHIA,  March  16,  1843. 
My  dear  Thomas  and  Dow, — 

I  arrived  here  in  perfect  safety,  and  sober,  about  half- 
past  four  last  evening — nothing  occurring  on  the  road 
of  any  consequence.  I  shaved  and  breakfasted  in  Balti- 
more, and  lunched  on  the  Susquehanna,  and  by  the  time 
I  got  to  Philadelphia  felt  quite  decent.  Mrs.  Clemm* 
was  expecting  me  at  the  car-office.  I  went  immediately 
home,  took  a  warm  bath  and  supper,  and  then  went  to 
Clarke's.  I  never  saw  a  man  in  my  life  more  surprised 
to  see  another.  He  thought  by  Dow's  epistle  that  I 
must  not  only  be  dead  but  buried,  and  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  seeing  his  great-great-great-grandmother. 
He  received  me,  therefore,  very  cordially,  and  made  light 
of  the  matter.  I  told  him  what  had  been  agreed  upon — 
that  I  was  a  little  sick,  and  that  Dow,  knowing  I  had 
been,  in  times  past,  given  to  spreeing  upon  an  extensive 
scale,  had  become  unduly  alarmed,  &c.,  &c. — that  when  I 
found  he  had  written,  I  thought  it  best  to  come  home. 
He  said  my  trip  had  improved  me,  and  that  he  had  never 
seen  me  looking  so  well! — and  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did. 
This  morning  I  took  medicine,  and,  as  it  is  a  snowy  day 
will  avail  myself  of  the  excuse  to  stay  at  home — so  that 
by  to-morrow  I  shall  be  really  as  well  as  ever.  Vir- 
ginia's f  health  is  about  the  same ;  but  her  distress  of 
mind  had  been  even  more  than  I  had  anticipated.  She 
desires  her  kindest  remembrances  to  both  of  you — as  also 
does  Mrs.  C. 

Clarke,  it  appears,  wrote  to  Dow,  who  must  have  re- 

*  Mrs.   Poe's  mother.  t  Poe's  wife. 


284  EDGAR    ALLAN   POE  &t.  34 


ceived  the  letter  this  morning.  Please  reenclose  the  letter 
to  me,  here,  so  that  I  may  know  how  to  guide  myself. 
And,  Thomas,  do  write  immediately  as  proposed.  If 
possible,  enclose  a  line  from  Rob  Tyler  —  but  I  fear  un- 
der the  circumstances,  it  is  not  so.  I  blame  no  one 
but  my'self. 

The  letter  which  I  looked  for,  and  which  I  wished 
returned,  is  not  on  its  way  —  reason,  no  money  forth- 
coming —  Lowell  had  not  yet  sent  it.  He  is  ill  in  New 
York,  of  ophthalmia.  Immediately  upon  receipt  of  it, 
or  before,  I  will  forward  the  money  you  were  both  so 
kind  as  to  lend,  which  is  eight  to  Dow,  and  three  and  a 
half  to  Thomas.  What  a  confounded  business  I  have 
got  myself  into,  attempting  to  write  a  letter  to  two 
people  at  once  ! 

However,  this  is  for  Dow.  My  dear  fellow,  thank  you 
a  thousand  times  for  your  kindness  and  great  forbear- 
ance, and  don't  say  a  word  about  the  cloak  turned  inside 
out,  or  other  peccadilloes  of  that  nature.  Also,  express 
to  your  wife  my  deep  regret  for  the  vexation  I  must 
have  occasioned  her.  Send  me,  also,  if  you  can,  the 
letter  to  Blythe.  Call,  also,  at  the  barber's  shop  just 
above  Fuller's  and  pay  for  me  a  levy  which  I  believe  I 
owe.  And  now,  God  bless  you,  for  a  nobler  fellow  never 
lived. 

And  this  is  for  Thomas.  My  dear  friend,  forgive  me 
my  petulance  and  don't  believe  I  think  all  I  said.  Be- 
lieve me,  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  your  many  at- 
tentions and  forbearances,  and  the  time  will  never  come 
when  I  shall  forget  either  them  or  you.  Remember  me 
most  kindly  to  Dr.  Lacey  —  also  to  the  Don,  whose  mus- 
tachios  I  do  admire  after  all,  and  who  has  about  the 
finest  figure  I  ever  beheld  —  also  to  Dr.  Frailey.  Please 
express  my  regret  to  Mr.  Fuller  for  making  such  a  fool 
of  myself  in  his  house,  and  say  to  him  (if  you  think  it 
necessary)  that  I  should  not  have  got  half  so  drunk  on 
his  excellent  port  wine  but  for  the  rummy  coffee  with 
which  I  was  forced  to  wash  it  down.  I  would  be  glad, 
too,  if  you  would  take  an  opportunity  of  saying  to  Mr. 
Rob  Tyler  that  if  he  can  look  over  matters  and  get  me 
the  inspectorship,  I  will  join  the  Washingtonians  forth- 
with. I  am  as  serious  as  a  judge  —  and  much  [more]  so 


34]  EDGAR   ALLAN   POE  285 

than  many.  I  think  it  would  be  a  feather  in  Mr.  Tyler's 
cap  to  save  from  the  perils  of  mint  julep — and  "Port 
wines" — a  young  man  of  whom  all  the  world  thinks  so 
well  and  who  thinks  so  remarkably  well  of  himself. 

And  now,  my  dear  friends,  good-by,  and  believe  me 
most  truly  yours, 

EDGAR  A.  POE. 

I>Et.  34] 

To  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 
[LONG  POEMS  PROSAIC] 

PHILADELPHIA,  October  19,  1843. 
My  dear  Friend, — 

I  was  upon  the  point  of  fulfilling  a  long  neglected  duty 
and  replying  to  Mr.  Carter's  letter,  enclosing  $5,  when 
I  received  yours  of  the  13th,  remitting  $5  more.  Believe 
me  I  am  sincerely  grateful  to  you  both  for  your  uniform 
kindness  and  consideration. 

You  say  nothing  of  your  health — but  Mr.  C.  speaks  of 
its  perfect  restoration,  and  I  see,  by  your  very  MS.,  that 
you  are  well  again,  body  and  mind.  I  need  not  say  that 
I  am  rejoiced  at  this — for  you  must  know  and  feel  that 
I  am.  When  I  thought  of  the  possible  loss  of  your  eye- 
sight, I  grieved  as  if  some  dreadful  misfortune  were 
about  happening  to  myself. 

I  shall  look  with  much  anxiety  for  your  promised  vol- 
ume. Will  it  include  your  "Year's  Life,"  and  other 
poems  already  published?  I  hope  that  it  may;  for  these 
have  not  yet  been  fairly  placed  before  the  eye  of  the 
world.  I  am  seeking  an  opportunity  to  do  you  justice 
in  a  review,  and  may  find  it  in  "Graham,"  when  your 
book  appears.  No  poet  in  America  has  done  so  much. 
I  have  maintained  this  upon  all  occasions.  Mr.  Long- 
fellow has  genius,  but  by  no  means  equals  you  in  the 
true  spirit.  He  is  moreover  so  prone  to  imitation  that  I 
know  not  how  to  understand  him  at  times.  I  am  in 
doubt  whether  he  should  not  be  termed  an  arrant  plagi- 
arist. You  have  read  his  "Spanish  Student?"  I  have 
written  quite  a  long  notice  of  it  for  Graham's  December 
number.  The  play  is  a  poor  composition,  with  some  fine 
poetical  passages.  His  "Hymn  to  the  Night,"  with  some 
strange  blemishes,  is  glorious. — How  much  I  should  like 


286  EDGAR   ALLAN   POE  [.Et.  34 

to  interchange  opinions  with  you  upon  poems  and  poets 
in  general !  I  fancy  that  we  should  agree,  usually,  in 
results,  while  differing,  frequently,  about  principles.  The 
day  may  come  when  we  can  discuss  everything  at  leisure, 
in  person. 

You  say  that  your  long  poem  has  taught  you  a  useful 
lesson, — "that  you  are  unfit  to  write  narrative — unless  in 
a  dramatic  form."  It  is  not  you  that  are  unfit  for  the 
task — but  the  task  for  you — for  any  poet.  Poetry  must 
eschew  narrative — except,  as  you  say,  dramatically.  I 
mean  to  say  that  the  true  poetry — the  highest  poetry — 
must  eschew  it.  The  Iliad  is  not  the  highest.  The  con- 
necting links  of  a  narrative — the  frequent  passages  which 
have  to  serve  the  purpose  of  binding  together  the  parts 
of  the  story,  are  necessarily  prose,  from  their  very  ex- 
planatory nature.  To  color  them — to  gloss  over  their 
prosaic  nature — (for  this  is  the  most  which  can  be  done) 
requires  great  skill.  Thus  Byron,  who  was  no  artist,  is 
always  driven,  in  his  narrative,  to  fragmentary  passages, 
eked  out  with  asterisks.  Moore  succeeds  better  than  any 
one.  His  "Alciphron"  is  wonderful  in  the  force,,  grace, 
and  nature  of  its  purely  narrative  passages : — but  pardon 
me  for  prosing. 

I  send  you  the  paper  with  my  life  and  portrait.  The 
former  is  true  in  general — the  latter  particularly  false. 
It  does  not  convey  the  faintest  idea  of  my  person.  No 
one  of  my  family  recognized  it.  But  this  is  a  point  of 
little  importance.  You  will  see,  upon  the  back  of  the 
biography,  an  announcement  that  I  was  to  assume  the 
editorship  of  the  "Museum."  This  was  unauthorized.  I 
never  did  edit  it.  The  review  of  "Graham's  Magazine" 
was  written  by  H.  B.  Hirst — a  young  poet  of  this  city. 
Who  is  to  write  your  life  for  "Graham"?  It  is  a  pity 
that  so  many  of  these  biographies  were  entrusted  to  Mr. 
Griswold.  He  certainly  lacks  independence,  or  judgment, 
or  both. 

I  have  tried  in  vain  to  get  a  copy  of  your  "Year's  Life" 
in  Philadelphia.  If  you  have  one,  and  could  spare  it,  I 
would  be  much  obliged. 

Do  write  me  again  when  you  have  leisure,  and  believe  me, 
Your  most  sincere  friend, 
EDGAR  A.  POE. 


.Et.  35]  EDGAK   ALLAN   POE  287 

[^Et.  35] 

To  MRS.  CLEMM 
[ARRIVAL  IN  NEW  YORK] 

NEW  YORK,  Sunday  Morning, 
April  7,  just  after  breakfast,  [1844.] 
My  dear  Muddy, — 

We  have  just  this  minute  done  breakfast,  and  I  now 
sit  down  to  write  you  about  everything.  I  can't  pay  for 
the  letter,  because  the  P.  O.  won't  be  open  to-day.  In 
the  first  place  we  arrived  safe  at  Walnut  St.  wharf.  The 
driver  wanted  to  make  me  pay  a  dollar,  but  I  wouldn't. 
Then  I  had  to  pay  a  boy  a  levy  to  put  the  trunks  in  the 
baggage  car.  In  the  meantime  I  took  Sis  [Virginia]  in 
the  Depot  Hotel.  It  was  only  a  quarter  past  six,  and  we 
had  to  wait  till  seven.  We  saw  the  "Ledger"  and  "Times" 
— nothing  in  either — a  few  words  of  no  account  in  the 
"Chronicle."  We  started  in  good  spirits,  but  did  not  get 
here  until  nearly  three  o'clock.  We  went  in  the  cars  to 
Amboy,  about  forty  miles  from  N.  York,  and  then  took 
the  steamboat  the  rest  of  the  way.  Sissy  coughed  none 
at  all.  When  we  got  to  the  wharf  it  was  raining  hard. 
I  left  her  on  board  the  boat,  after  putting  the  trunks  in 
the  Ladies'  cabin,  and  set  off  to  buy  an  umbrella  and  look 
for  a  boarding-house.  I  met  a  man  selling  umbrellas, 
and  bought  one  for  twenty-five  cents.  Then  I  went  up 
Greenwich  St.  and  soon  found  a  boarding-house.  It  is 
just  before  you  get  to  Cedar  St.,  on  the  west  side  going 
up — the  left-hand  side.  It  has  brown  stone  steps,  with 
a  porch  with  brown  pillars.  "Morrison"  is  the  name  on 
the  door.  I  made  a  bargain  in  a  few  minutes  and  then 
got  a  hack  and  went  for  Sis.  I  was  not  gone  more  than 
half  an  hour,  and  she  was  quite  astonished  to  see  me 
back  so  soon.  She  didn't  expect  me  for  an  hour.  There 
were  two  other  ladies  waiting  on  board — so  she  wasn't 
very  lonely.  When  we  got  to  the  house  we  had  to  wait 
about  half  an  hour  before  the  room  was  ready.  The 
house  is  old  and  looks  buggy.  [The  letter  is  cut  here  for 
the  signature  on  the  other  side.]  the  cheapest  board  I 
ever  knew,  taking  into  consideration  the  central  situa- 
tion and  the  living.  I  wish  Kate  [Catterina,  the  cat] 
could  see  it — she  would  faint.  Last  night,  for  supper, 


288  EDGAK   ALLAN   POE  [  J5t.  35 


we  had  the  nicest  tea  you  ever  drank,  strong  and  hot,  — 
wheat  bread  and  rye  bread  —  cheese  —  tea  —  cakes  (elegant), 
a  great  dish  (two  dishes)  of  elegant  ham,  and  two  of  cold 
veal,  piled  up  like  a  mountain  and  large  slices  —  three 
dishes  of  the  cakes  and  everything  in  the  greatest  pro- 
fusion. No  fear  of  starving  here.  The  landlady  seemed 
as  if  she  couldn't  press  us  enough,  and  we  were  at  home 
directly.  Her  husband  is  living  with  her  —  a  fat,  good- 
natured  old  soul.  There  are  eight  or  ten  boarders  —  two 
or  three  of  them  ladies  —  two  servants.  For  breakfast  we 
had  excellent-flavored  coffee,  hot  and  strong  —  not  very 
clear  and  no  great  deal  of  cream  —  veal  cutlets,  elegant 
ham  and  eggs  and  nice  bread  and  butter.  I  never  sat 
down  to  a  more  plentiful  or  a  nicer  breakfast.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  the  eggs  —  and  the  great  dishes  of 
meat.  I  ate  the  first  hearty  breakfast  I  have  eaten  since 
I  left  our  little  home.  Sis  is  delighted,  and  we  are  both 
in  excellent  spirits.  She  has  coughed  hardly  any  and 
had  no  night  sweat.  She  is  now  busy  mending  my  pants 
which  I  tore  against  a  nail.  I  went  out  last  night  and 
bought  a  skein  of  silk,  a  skein  of  thread,  two  buttons,  a 
pair  of  slippers,  and  a  tin  pan  for  the  stove.  The  fire 
kept  in  all  night.  We  have  now  got  four  dollars  and  a 
half  left.  To-morrow  I  am  going  to  try  and  borrow  three 
dollars,  so  that  I  may  have  a  fortnight  to  go  upon.  I 
feel  in  excellent  spirits,  and  haven't  drank  a  drop  —  so 
that  I  hope  soon  to  get  out  of  trouble.  The  very  instant 
I  scrape  together  enough  money  I  will  send  it  on.  You 
can't  imagine  how  much  we  both  do  miss  you.  Sissy 
had  a  hearty  cry  last  night,  because  you  and  Catterina 
weren't  here.  We  are  resolved  to  get  two  rooms  the  first 
moment  we  can.  In  the  meantime  it  is  impossible  we 
could  be  more  comfortable  or  more  at  home  than  we  are. 
It  looks  as  if  it  were  going  to  clear  up  now.  Be  sure  and 
go  to  the  P.  O.  and  have  my  letters  forwarded.  As  soon 
as  I  write  Lowell's  article,  I  will  send  it  to  you,  and  get 
you  to  get  the  money  from  Graham.  Give  our  best  love 
to  0. 

[Signature  cut  out.] 

Be  sure  and  take  home  the  "Messenger"  to  Hirst.     We 
hope  to  send  for  you  very  soon. 


|>Et.  53]  ABEAHAM   LINCOLN 

1809-1865 

To  GENERAL  HO'OKER 
["WHAT  i  NOW  ASK  OF  YOU  is  MILITARY  SUCCESS"] 

EXECUTIVE  MANSION,  WASHINGTON,  D.  C.y 

January  26,  1863. 
Major-General  Hooker. 

General:  I  have  placed  you  at  the  head  of  the  Army 
'of  the  Potomac.  Of  course  I  have  done  this  upon  what 
appear  to  me  to  be  sufficient  reasons,  and  yet  I  think  it 
best  for  you  to  know  that  there  are  some  things  in  re- 
gard to  which  I  am  not  quite  satisfied  with  you.  I  be- 
lieve you  to  be  a  brave  and  skilful  soldier,  which  of  course 
I  like.  I  also  believe  you  do  not  mix  politics  with  your 
profession,  in  which  you  are  right.  You  have  confidence 
in  -yourself,  which  is  a  valuable  if  not  an  indispensable 
quality.  You  are  ambitious,  which,  within  reasonable 
bounds,  does  good  rather  than  harm;  but  I  think  that 
during  General  Burnside's  command  of  the  army  you 
have  taken  counsel  of  your  ambition  and  thwarted  him 
as  much  as  you  could,  in  which  you  did  a  great  wrong 
to  the  country  and  to  a  most  meritorious  and  honorable 
brother  officer.  I  have  heard,  in  such  a  way  as  to  be- 
lieve it,  of  your  recently  saying  that  both  the  army  and 
the  government  needed  a  dictator.  Of  course  it  was  not 
for  this,  but  in  spite  of  it,  that  I  have  given  you  the 
command.  Only  those  generals  who  gain  successes  can 
set  up  dictators.  What  I  now  ask  of  you  is  military  suc- 
cess, and  I  will  risk  the  dictatorship.  The  government 
will  support  you  to  the  utmost  of  its  ability,  which  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  it  has  done  and  will  do  for 
all  commanders.  I  much  fear  that  the  spirit  which  you 
have  aided  to  infuse  into  the  army,  of  criticizing  their 
commander  and  withholding  confidence  from  him,  will 
now  turn  upon  you.  I  shall  assist  you  as  far  as  I  can 
to  put  it  down.  Neither  you  nor  Napoleon,  if  he  were 
alive  again,  could  get  any  good  out  of  an  army  while 
such  a  spirit  prevails  in  it;  and  now  beware  of  rashness. 
Beware  of  rashness,  but  with  energy  and  sleepless  vigil- 
ance go  forward  and  give  us  victories.  Yours  very  truly, 

A.  LINCOLN. 

289 


290  ABKAHAM   LINCOLN  [Mt.  55 


55]  To  GENERAL  IT.  S.  GRANT 

[EXPRESSION  OF  CONFIDENCE] 

EXECUTIVE  MANSION,  WASHINGTON, 

April  30,  1864. 
Lieutenant-  General  Grant: 

Not  expecting  to  see  you  again  before  the  spring  cam- 
paign opens,  I  wish  to  express  in  this  way  my  entire  sat- 
isfaction with  what  you  have  done  up  to  this  time,  so 
far  as  I  understand  it.  The  particulars  of  your  plans  I 
neither  know  nor  seek  to  know.  You  are  vigilant  and 
self-reliant;  and,  pleased  with  this,  I  wish  not  to  ob- 
trude any  constraints  or  restraints  upon  you.  While  I 
am  very  anxious  that  any  great  disaster  or  capture  of 
our  men  in  great  numbers  shall  be  avoided,  I  know  these 
points  are  less  likely  to  escape  your  attention  than  they 
would  be  mine.  If  there  is  anything  wanting  which  is 
within  my  power  to  give,  do  not  fail  to  let  me  know  it. 
And  now,  with  a  brave  army  and  a  just  cause,  may  God 
sustain  you.  Yours  very  truly, 

A.  LINCOLN. 
[^Et  55]  To  MRS.  BIXBY 

["THE  THANKS  OF  THE  REPUBLIC"] 

EXECUTIVE  MANSION,  WASHINGTON, 

November  21,  1864. 
Mrs.  Bixby,  Boston,  Massachusetts. 

Dear  Madam:  I  have  been  shown  in  the  files  of  the 
War  Department  a  statement  of  the  Adjutant-General  of 
Massachusetts  that  you  are  the  mother  of  five  sons  who 
have  died  gloriously  on  the  field  of  battle.  I  feel  how 
weak  and  fruitless  must  be  any  words  of  mine  which 
should  attempt  to  beguile  you  from  the  grief  of  a  loss  so 
overwhelming.  But  I  cannot  refrain  from  tendering  you 
the  consolation  that  may  be  found  in  the  thanks  of  the 
republic  they  died  to  save.  I  pray  that  our  Heavenly 
Father  may  assuage  the  anguish  of  your  bereavement, 
and  leave  you  only  the  cherished  memory  of  the  loved 
and  lost,  and  the  solemn  pride  that  must  be  yours  to  have 
laid  so  costly  a  sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of  freedom. 
Yours  very  sincerely  and  respectfully, 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 


f.Et.  25]  EDWAKD    FITZGEKALD 

1809-1883 
To  W.  B.  DONNE 
[SHAKESPEARE;  LIFE  OF  COLERIDGE] 
[LONDON,  17  GLOUCESTER  STREET,  QUEEN  SQUARE] 

1834. 
Dear  Donne, 

...  I  have  been  buying  two  Shakespeares,  a  second 
and  third  Folio — the  second  Folio  pleases  me  much:  and 
I  can  read  him  with  a  greater  zest  now.  One  had  need 
of  a  big  book  to  remember  him  by:  for  he  is  lost  to  the 
theatre:  I  saw  Mr.  Yandenhoff  play  Macbeth  in  a  sad 
way  a  few  nights  ago :  and  such  a  set  of  dirty  ragamuffins 
as  the  rest  were  could  not  disgrace  any  country  barn. 
Manfred  I  have  missed  by  some  chance :  and  I  believe  "it- 
was  all  for  the  best"  as  pious  people  say.  The  Theatre 
is  bare  beyond  anything  I  ever  saw:  and  one  begins  to 
hope  that  it  has  touched  the  bottom  of  its  badness,  and 
will  rise  again.  I  was  looking  the  other  day  at  Sir  W. 
Davenant's  alteration  of  Macbeth:  who  dies,  saying, 
"Farewell,  vain  world:  and  that  which  is  vainest  in't, 
Ambition !" 

Edgeworth,  whom  I  think  you  remember  at  Cambridge, 
is  come  to  live  in  town:  and  I  see  him  often  at  the  Mu- 
seum. The  want  of  books  chiefly  drove  him  from  Italy: 
besides  that  he  tells  me  he  likes  a  constant  change  of 
scenes  and  ideas,  and  would  be  always  about  if  he  could. 
'He  is  a  very  original  man  I  think,  and  throws  out  much 
to  be  chewed  and  digested :  but  he  is  deficient  in  some 
elements  that  must  combine  to  'govern  my"  love  and  ad- 
miration. He  has  much  imagination  of  head,  but  none 
of  heart :  perhaps  these  are  absurd  distinctions :  but  I  am 
no  hand  at  these  definitions.  His  great  study  is  meta- 
physics :  and  Kant  is  his  idol.  He  is  rather  without  com- 
pany in  London,  and  I  wish  much  to  .introduce  him  to 
such  men  as  I  know:  but  most  of  your  Apostolic  party 
who  could  best  exchange  ideas  with  him  are  not  in  town. 
He  is  full  of  his  subjects,  and  only  wants  opponents  to 
tilt  at.  ... 

The  life  of  Coleridge  is  indeed  an  unsatisfactory  thing: 
I  believe  that  everybody  thinks  so.  You  seem  to  think  that 

291 


292  EDWARD    FITZGERALD  [^Et.  26 

it  is  purposely  unsatisfactory,  or  rather  dissatisfactory: 
but  it  seems  to  me  to  proceed  from  a  kind  of  enervation 
in  De  Quincey.  However,  I  don't  know  how  he  supports 
himself  in  other  writings.  .  .  . 

To  fill  up  my  letter  I  send  you  a  sonnet  of  C.  Lamb's, 
out  of  his  Album  Verses — please  to  like  it — "Leisure." 


26] 

To  JOHN  ALLEN 
[TENNYSON  AT  AMBLESIDE;  OLD  DIVINES] 

MANCHESTER,  May  23,  1835. 
Dear  Allen, 

I  think  that  the  fatal  two  months  have  elapsed,  by 
which  a  letter  shall  become  due  to  me  from  you.  Ask 
Mrs.  Allen  if  this  is  not  so.  Mind,  I  don't  speak  this 
upbraidingly,  because  I  know  that  you  didn't  know  where 
I  was.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  this  by  degrees.  In  the 
first  place,  I  stayed  at  Mirehouse  till  the  beginning  of 
May,  and  then,  going  homeward,  spent  a  week  at  Amble- 
side,  which,  perhaps  you  don't  know,  is  on  the  shore  of 
Winandermere.  It  was  very  pleasant  there:  though  it 
was  to  be  wished  that  the  weather  had  been  a  little  bet- 
ter. I  have  scarce  done  anything  since  I  saw  you  but 
abuse  the  weather:  but  these  four  last  days  have  made 
amends  for  all:  and  are,  I  hope,  the  beginning  of  sum-- 
mer  at  last.  Alfred  Tennyson  stayed  with  me. at  Amble- 
side:  Spedding  was  forced  to  go  home,  till  the  last  two 
days  of  my  stay  there.  I  will  say  no  more  of  Tennyson 
than  that  the  more  I  have  seen  of  him,  the  more  cause 
I  have  to-  think  him  great.  His  little  humours  and 
grumpinesses  were  so  droll,  that  I  was  always  laughing: 
and  was  often  put  in  mind  (strange  to  say)  of  my  little 
unknown  friend,  Undine — I  must  however  say,  further, 
that  I  felt  what  Charles  Lamb  describes,  a  sense  of  de- 
pression at  times  from  the  overshadowing  of  a  so  much 
more  lofty  intellect  than  my  own:  this  (though  it  may 
seem  vain  to  say  so)  I  never  experienced  before,  though  I 
have  often  been  with  much  greater  intellects :  but  I  could 
not  be  mistaken  in  the  universality  of  his  mind;  and 
perhaps  I  have  received  some  benefit  in  the  now  more 


JKt.  26]  EDWAED   FITZGEKALD  293 

distinct  consciousness  of  my  dwarfishness.  I  think  that 
you  should  keep  all  this  to  yourself,  my  dear  Allen:  I 
mean,  that  it  is  only  to  you  that  I  would  write  so  freely 
about  myself.  You  know  most  of  my  secrets,  and  I  am 
not  afraid  of  entrusting  even  my  vanities  to  so  true  a 
man.  .  .  . 

Pray,  do  not  forget  to  say  how  the  Freestone  party 
are.  My  heart  jumped  to  them,  when  I  read  in  a  guide 
book  at  Ambleside,  that  from  Scawfell  (a  mountain  in 
Westmoreland)  you  could  see  Snowdon.  Perhaps  you 
will  not  see  the  chain  of  ideas :  but  I  suppose  there  was 
one,  else  I  don't  know  how  it  was  that  I  tumbled,  as  it 
were,  from  the  very  summit  of  Scawfell,  upon  the 
threshold  of  Freestone.  The  mind  soon  traverses  Wales. 
I  have  not  been  reading  very  much — (as  if  you  ever  ex- 
pected that  I  did!) — but  I  mean,  not  very  much  for  me 
— some  Dante,  by  the  aid  of  a  Dictionary :  and  some  Mil- 
ton— and  some  Wordsworth — and  some  selections  from 
Jeremy  Taylor,  Barrow,  &c.,  compiled  by  Basil  Montagu 
— of  course  you  know  the  book:  it  is  published  by  Pick- 
ering. I  do  not  think  that  it  is  very  well  done :  but  it 
has  served  to  delight,  and,  I  think,  to  instruct  me  much. 
Do  you  know  South?  He  must  be  very  great,  I  think. 
It  seems  to  me  that  our  old  Divines  will  hereafter  be 
considered  our  Classics — (in  Prose,  I  mean) — I  am  not 
aware  that  any  other  nations  have  such  books..  A  single 
selection  from  Jeremy  Taylor  is  fine :  but  it  requires  a 
skilful  hand  to  put  many  detached  bits  from  him  to- 
gether: for  a  common  editor  only  picks  out  the  flowery, 
metaphorical,  morsels:  and  so  rather  cloys:  and  gives 
quite  a  wrong  estimate  of  the  Authour,  to  those  who  had 
no  previous  acquaintance  with  him:  for,  rich  as  Taylor's 
illustrations,  and  grotesque  as  his  images,  are,  no  one 
keeps  a  grander  proportion :  he  never  huddles  illustra- 
tion upon  the  matter  so  as  to  overlay  it,  nor  crowds  images 
too  thick  together:  which  these  Selections  might  make 
one  unacquainted  with  him  to  suppose.  This  is  always 
the  fault  of  Selections:  but  Taylor  is  particularly  liable 
to  injury  on  this  score.  What  a  man  he  is!  He  has 
such  a  knowledge  of  the  nature  of  man,  and  snoli  powers 
of  expressing  its  properties,  that  I  sometimes  feel  as  if 
he  had  had  some  exact  counterpart  of  my  own  individual 


294  EDWAKD    FITZGEKALD  [^Et.  20 

character  under  his  eye,  when  he  lays  open  the  depths  of 
the  heart,  or  traces  some  sin  to  its  root.  The  eye  of  his 
portrait  expresses  this  keen  intuition:  and  I  think  I 
should  less  like  to  have  stood  with  a  lie  on  my  tongue 
before  him,  than  before  any  other  I  know  of.  ... 

I  beg  you  to  give  my  best  remembrances  to  your  lady, 
who  may  be  always  sure  that  in  all  I  wish  of  well  for 
you,  she  is  included:  so  that  I  take  less  care  to  make 
mention  of  her  separately.  .  .  . 


.  26] 

To  JOHN  ALLEN 
[THE  POOR  LAWS;  SOUTHEY'S  "COWPER"] 

BOULGE  HALL,  WOODBRIDGE, 

October -31,  1835. 
Dear  Allen, 

I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  me  of  late,  that  I 
have  not  written  to  you,  nor  any  body  else  for  several 
months.  I  am  sure  it  is  not  from  any  decrease  of  affec- 
tion towards  you.  I  now  begin  a  letter  merely  on  the 
score  of  wanting  one  from  you;  to  let  me  know  how  you 
are;  and  Mrs.  Allen  too,  especially.  I  hope  to  hear  good 
news  of  her.  Many  things  have  happened  to  you  since 
I  saw  you;  you  may  be  Bishop,  for  anything  I  know.  I 
have  been  in  Suffolk  ever  since  I  saw  you.  We  are  at 
[last]  come  to  settle  at  this  place :  and  I  have  been  en- 
joying capital  health  in  my  old  native  air.  I  meant  to 
have  come  to  London  for  the  winter:  but  my  sisters  are 
here,  and  I  do  not  like  to  leave  them.  This  parish  is  a 
very  small  one :  it  scarce  contains  fifty  people :  but  that 
next  to  it,  Bredfield,  has  more  than  four  hundred:  and 
some  very  poor  indeed.  We  hope  to  be  of  some  use:  but 
the  new  Poor  Laws  have  begun  to  be  set  afoot,  and  we 
don't  know  who  is  to  stop  in  his  cottage,  or  who  is  to  go 
to  the  Workhouse.  'How  much  depends  upon  the  issue 
of  this  measure!  I  am  no  politician:  but  I  fear  that  no 
political  measure  will  ever  adjust  matters  well  between 
rich  and  poor.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  read  Southey's  Life  of  Cowper;  that  is  to 
say,  the  first  Volume.  It  is  not  a  book  to  be  read  by 


29]  EDWAKD    FITZGERALD  295 

every  man  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf.  It  is  a  fearful  book. 
Have  you  read  it?  Southey  hits  hard  at  Newton  in  the 
dark;  which  will  give  offence  to  many  people:  but  I  per- 
fectly agree  with  him.  At  the  same  time,  I  think  that 
Newton  was  a  man  of  great  power.  Did  you  ever  read 
his  life  by  himself?  Pray  do,  if  you  have  not.  His  jour- 
nal to  his  wife,  written  at  sea,  contains  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  things  I  ever  read:  fine  feeling  in  very 
fine  English.  ... 

Pray  do  write  to  me :  a  few  lines  soon  are  better  than 
a  three-decker  a  month  hence:  for  I  really  want  to  know 
where  and  how  you  are:  and  so  be  a  good  boy  for  once 
in  your  life.  Ever  yours  lovingly,  E.  E.  G. 


29] 

To  BERNARD  BARTON 
[CARLYLE'S  "FRENCH  REVOLUTION";  TENNYSON] 

LONDON,  April,  1838. 
Dear  Sir, 

John,  who  is  going  down  into  Suffolk,  will  I  hope  take 
this  letter  and  despatch  it  to  you  properly.  I  write  more 
on  account  of  this  opportunity  than  of  anything  I  have 
to  say:  for  I  am  very  heavy  indeed  with  a  kind  of  In- 
fluenza, which  has  blocked  up  most  of  my  senses,  and  put 
a  wet  blanket  over  my  brains  This  state  of  head  has 
not  been  improved  by  trying  to  get  through  a  new  book 
much  in  fashion — Carlyle's  French  Revolution — written 
in  a  German  style.  An  Englishman  writes  of  French 
Revolutions  in  a  German  style.  People  say  the  book  is 
very  deep :  but  it  appears  to  me  that  the  meaning  seems 
deep  from  lying  under  mystical  language.  There  is  no 
repose,  nor  equable  movement  in  it:  all  cut  up  into  short 
sentences,  half  reflective,  half  narrative;  so  that  one 
labours  through  it  as  vessels  do  through  what  is  called 
a  short  sea — small,  contrary  going  waves  caused  by  shal- 
lows, and  straits,  and  meeting  tides,  &c.  I  like  to  sail 
before  the  wind  over  the  surface  of  an  even-rolling  elo- 
quence, like  that  of  Bacon  or  the  Opium  Eater.  There 
is  also  pleasant  fresh  water  sailing  with  such  writers  as 
Addison;  is  there  any  pond-sailing  in  literature?  that  is, 


296  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  [^Et.  29 

drowsy,  slow,  and  of  small  compass?  Perhaps  we  may 
say,  some  Sermons.  But  this  is  only  conjecture.  Cer- 
tainly Jeremy  Taylor  rolls  along  as  majestically  as  any 
of  them.  We  have  had  Alfred  Tennyson  here ;  very  droll, 
and  very  wayward:  and  much  sitting  up  of  nights  till 
two  and  three  in  the  morning  with  pipes  in  our  mouths: 
at  which  good  hour  we  would  get  Alfred  to  give  us  some 
of  his  magic  music,  which  he  does  between  growling  and 
smoking;  and  so  to  bed.  All  this  has  not  cured  my  In- 
fluenza as  you  may  imagine:  but  these  hours  shall  be 
remembered  long  after  the  Influenza  is  forgotten. 

I  have  bought  scarce  any  new  books  or  prints :  and  am 
not  sorry  to  see  that  I  want  so  little  more.  One  large 
purchase  I  have  made  however,  the  Biographic  Univer- 
selle,  53  octavo  volumes.  It  contains  everything,  and  is 
the  very  best  thing  of  its  kind,  and  so  referred  to  by  all 
historians,  &c.  Surely  nothing  is  more  pleasant  than, 
when  some  name  crosses  one,  to  go  and  get  acquainted 
with  the  owner  of  the  name:  and  this  Biographic  really 
has  found  places  for  people  whom  one  would  have  thought 
almost  too  small  for  so  comprehensive  a  work — which 
sounds  like  a  solecism,  or  Bull,  does  it  not? 

Now  I  must  finish  my  letter:  and  a  very  stupid  one 
it  is.  Here  is  a  sentence  of  Warburton's  that,  I  think, 
is  very  wittily  expressed:  though  why  I  put  it  in  here  is 
not  very  discoverable.  "The  Church,  like  the  Ark  of 
Noah,  is  worth  saving:  not  for  the  sake  of  the  unclean 
beasts  that  almost  filled  it,  and  probably  made  most  noise 
and  clamour  in  it,  but  for  the  little  corner  of  rationality, 
that  was  as  much  distressed  by  the  stink  within,  as  by 
the  tempest  without."  Is  it  not  good?  It  is  out  of  his 
letters:  and  the  best  thing  in  them.  It  is  also  the  best 
thing  in  mine. 

With  kind  remembrances  to  Miss  Barton,  believe  me 
Yours  very  affectionately 

E.    FITZGERALD. 


JEt.  31]  EDWARD    FITZGERALD  297 

.  31] 


To  W.  H.  THOMPSON 
["CARLYLE'S  RAVING  BOOK  ABOUT  -HEROES"] 

BOULGE  HALL,  WOODBRIDGE, 

March  26,  '41. 
My  dear  Thompson, 

...  I  had  a  long  letter  from  Morton  the  other  day  — 
he  is  still  luxuriating  at  Venice.  Also  a  letter  from 
Frederic  Tennyson,  who  has  been  in  Sicily  &c.  and  is 
much  distracted  between  enjoyment  of  those  climates 
and  annoyance  from  Fleas.  These  two  men  are  to  be  at 
Rome  together  soon:  so  if  any  one  wants  to  go  to  Rome, 
now  is  a  good  time.  I  wish  I  was  there.  F.  Tennyson 
says  that  he  and  a  party  of  Englishmen  fought  a  cricket 
match  with  the  crew  of  the  Bellerophon  on  the  PartTi- 
enopcean  hills  (query  about  the  correctness  of  this  —  I 
quote  from  memory),  and  sacked  the  sailors  by  90  runs. 
Is  not  this  pleasant?  —  the  notion  of  good  English  blood 
striving  in  worn  out  Italy  —  I  like  that  such  men  as 
Frederic  should  be  abroad:  so  strong,  haughty,  and  pas- 
sionate. They  keep  up  the  English  character  abroad. 
.  .  .  Have  you  read  poor  Carlyle's  raving  book  about 
heroes?  Of  course  you  have,  or  I  would  ask  you  to  buy 
my  copy.  I  don't  like  to  live  with  it  in  the  house.  It 
smoulders.  He  ought  to  be  laughed  at  a  little.  But  it 
is  pleasant  to  retire  to  the  Tale  of  a  Tub,  Tristram 
Shandy,  and  Horace  Walpole,  after  being  tossed  on  his 
canvas  waves.  This  is  blasphemy.  Dibdin  Pitt  of  the 
Coburg  could  enact  one  of  his  heroes.  .  .  . 


33] 

To  BERNARD  BARTON 
[NASEBY  BATTLE-FIELD] 

[NASEBY],  Septr.  22,  '42. 
My  dear  Barton, 

The  pictures  are  left  all  ready  packed  up  in  Portland 
Place,  and  shall  come  down  with  me,  whenever  that  de- 
sirable event  takes  place.  In  the  mean  while  here  I  am 
as  before:  but  having  received  a  long  and  interesting 


298  EDWARD    FITZGERALD  [/Et.  33 

letter  from  Carlyle  asking  information  about  this  Battle 
field,  I  have  trotted  about  rather  more  to  ascertain  names 
of  places,  positions  &c.  After  all  he  will  make  a  mad 
book.  I  have  just  seen  some  of  the  bones  of  a  dragoon 
and  his  horse  who  were  found  foundered  in  a  morass  in 
the  field — poor  dragoon,  much  dismembered  by  time:  his 
less  worthy  members  having  been  left  in  the  owner's 
summer-house  for  the  last  twenty  years  have  disappeared 
one  by  one:  but  his  skull  is  kept  safe  in  the  hall:  not  a 
bad  skull  neither:  and  in  it  some  teeth  yet  holding,  and 
a  bit  of  tike  iron  heel  of  his  ^ooot,  put  into  the  skull  by 
way  of  convenience.  This  is  what  Sir  Thomas  Browne 
calls  "making  a  man  act  his  Antipodes."  I  have  got  a 
•fellow  to  dig  at  one  of  the  great  general  graves  in  the 
field :  and  he  tells  me  to-night  that  he  has  come  to  bones : 
to-morrow  I  will  select  a  neat  specimen  or  two.  In  the 
mean  time  let  the  full  harvest  moon  wonder  at  them  as 
they  lie  turned  up  after  lying  hid  2400  revolutions  of 
hers.  Think  of  that  warm  14th  of  June  when  the  Battle 
was  fought,  and  they  fell  pell-mell:  and  then  the  country 
people  came  and  buried  them  so  shallow  that  the  stench 
was  terrible,  and  the  putrid  matter  oozed  over  the  ground 
for  several  yards:  so  that  the  cattle  were  observed  to  eat 
those  places  very  close  for  some  years  after.  Every  one 
to  his  taste,  as  one  might  well  say  to  any  woman  who 
kissed  the  cow  that  pastured  there. 

Friday,  23rd.  We  have  dug  at  a  place,  as  I  said,  and 
made  such  a  trench  as  would  hold  a  dozen  fellows:  whose 
remains  positively  make  up  the  mould.  The  bones  nearly 
all  rotted  away,  except  the  .teeth  which  are  quite  good. 
At  the  bottom  lay  the  form  of  a  perfect  skeleton:  most 
of  the  bones  gone,  but  the  pressure  distinct  in  the  clay: 
the  thigh  and  leg  bones  yet  extant:  the  skull  a  little 
pushed  forward,  as  if  there  were  scanty  room.  We  also 
tried  some  other  reputed  graves,  but  found  nothing:  in- 
deed it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish  what  are  graves  from 
old  marl-pits  &c.  I  don't  care  for  all  this  bone-rum- 
maging myself:  but  the  identification  of  the  graves  iden- 
tifies also  where  the  greatest  heat  of  the  battle  was.  Do 
you  wish  for  a  tooth? 

As  I  began  this  antiquarian  account  in  a  letter  to  you, 
so  I  have  finished  it,  that  you  may  mention  it  to  my 


.Et.  34]  EDWARD    FITZGERALD  299 

Papa,  who  perhaps  will  be  amused  at  it.  Two  farmers 
insisted  on  going  out  exploring  with  me  all  day:  one  a 
very  solid  fellow  who  talks  like  the  justices  in  Shake- 
speare: but  who  certainly  was  inspired  in  finding  out  this 
grave :  the  other  a  Scotchman  full  of  intelligence,  who 
proposed  the  flesh-soil  for  manure  for  turnips.  The  old 
Vicar,  whose  age  reaches  half-way  back  to  the  day  of 
the  Battle,  stood  tottering  over  the  verge  of  the  trench. 
Carlyle  has  shewn  great  sagacity  in  guessing  at  the  lo- 
calities from  the  vague  descriptions  of  contemporaries: 
and  his  short  pasticcio  of  the  battle  is  the  best  I  have 
seen.  But  he  will  spoil  all  by  making  a  demi-god  of 
Cromwell,  who  certainly  was  so  far  from  wise  that  he 
brought  about  the  very  thing  he  fought  to  prevent — the 
restoration  of  an  unrestricted  monarchy. 


34] 

To  FREDERIC  TENNYSON 
[A  SUNDAY  LETTER] 

BOULGE  HALL,  WOODBRIDGE, 

Sunday,  Dec.  10,  1843. 
Dear  Frederic, 

Either  you  wrote  me  word  yourself,  or  some  one  told 
me,  that  you  meant  to  winter  at  Florence.  So  I  shall 
direct  to  the  Poste  Restante  there.  You  see  I  am  not 
settled  at  the  Florence  of  Suffolk,,  called  Ipswich,  yet: 
but  I  am  perhaps  as  badly  off;  being  in  the  most  dull 
country  house  quite  alone;  a  grey  mist  that  seems  teem- 
ing with  .half  formed  snow,  all  over  the  landscape  before 
my  windows.  It  is  also  Sunday  morning:  ten  of  the 
clock  by  the  chime  now  sounding  from  the  stables.  I 
have  fed  on  bread  and  milk  (a  dreadfully  opaque  diet) 
and  I  await  the  morning  church  in  humble  hope.  It  will 
begin  in  half  an  hour.  We  keep  early  hours  in  the  coun- 
try. So  you  will  be  able  to  measure  my  aptitude  and 
fullness  for  letter  writing  by  the  quantity  written  now, 
before  I  bolt  off  for  hat,  gloves,  and  prayerbook.  I  al- 
ways put  on  my  thickest  great  coat  to  go  to  our  Church 
in :  as  fungi  grow  in  great  numbers  about  the  communion 
table.  And  now,  to  turn  away  from  Boulge,  I  must  tell 


300  EDWAKD    FITZGEEALD  [Mt.  34 

you  that  I  went  up  to  London  a  month  ago  to  see  old 
Thackeray,  who  had  come  there  to  have  his  eyes  doc- 
tored. I  stayed  with  him  ten  days  and  we  were  as  usual 
together.  Alfred  came  up  "in  transitu"  from  Boxley  to 
Cheltenham ;  he  looked,  and  said  he  was,  ill :  I  have  never 
seen  him  so  hopeless:  and  I  am  really  anxious  to  know 
how  he  is.  .  .  .1  remember  the  days  of  the  summer 
when  you  and  I  were  together,  quarreling  and  laughing 
— these  I  remember  with  pleasure.  Our  trip  to  Gravesend 
has  left  a  perfume  with  me.  I  can  get  up  with  you  on 
that  everlastingly  stopping  coach  on  which  we  tried  to 
travel  from  Gravesend  to  Maidstone  that  Sunday  morn- 
ing: worn  out  with  it,  we  got  down  at  an  inn,  and  then 
got  up  on  another — and  an  old  smiling  fellow  passed  us 
holding  out  his  hat — and  you  said,  "That  old  fellow  must 
go  about  as  Homer  did" — and  numberless  other  turns 
of  road  and  humour,  which  sometimes  pass  before  me  as 
I  lie  in  bed.  .  .  .  Now  before  I  turn  over,  I  will  go  and 
see  about  Church,  as  I  hear  no  bell,  pack  myself  up  as 
warmly  as  I  can,  and  be  off.  So  good-bye  till  twelve 
o'clock.  .  .  .  'Tis  five  minutes  past  twelve  by  the  stable 
clock:  so  I  saw  as  I  returned  from  Church  through  the 
garden.  Parson  and  Clerk  got  through  the  service  see- 
saw, like  two  men  in  a  sawpit.  In  the  garden  I  see  the 
heads  of  the  snowdrops  and  crocuses  just  out  of  the 
earth.  Another  year  with  its  same  flowers  and  topics  to 
open  upon  us.  Shenstone  somewhere  sings 

Tedious  again  to  mark  the  drizzling  day, 
Again  to  trace  the  same  sad  tracts  of  snow: 

Or,  lull'd  by  vernal  airs,  again  survey 

The  selfsame  hawthorn  bud,  and  cowslips  blow. 

I  rely  on  you  and  all  your  family  sympathizing  in  this. 
So  do  I  sometimes — anyhow,  people  complimenting  each 
other  on  the  approach  of  Spring  and  such  like  felicita- 
tions are  very  tiresome.  Our  very  year  is  of  a  paltry 
diameter.  But  this  is  not  proper  language  for  Mark 
Tapley — whose  greatest  bore  just  now  is  having  a  bad 
pen — but  the  letter  is  ended.  So  he  is  jolly  and  yours 
as  ever.  v 


.  35]  EDWAED   FITZGEKALD  301 

35] 


To  BERNARD  BARTON 
[A  KITTEN;  CARLYLE;  A  PREACHER] 

19  CHARLOTTE  ST.,  April  11,  '44. 
Dear  Barton, 

I  am  still  indignant  at  this  nasty  place  London.  Thack- 
eray, whom  I  came  up  to  see,  went  off  to  Brighton  the 
night  after  I  arrived,  and  has  not  reappeared  :  but  I  must 
wait  some  time  longer  for  him.  Thank  Miss  Barton  much 
for  the  kit;  if  it  is  but  a  kit:  my  old  woman  is  a  great 
lover  of  cats,  and  hers  has  just  kitted,  and  a  wretched 
little  blind  puling  tabby  lizard  of  a  thing  was  to  be  saved 
from  the  pail  for  me  :  but  if  Miss  Barton's  is  a  Tcit,  I  will 
gladly  have  it:  and  my  old  lady's  shall  be  disposed  of  — 
not  to  the  pail.  Oh  rus,  quando  te  aspiciam?  Construe 
that,  Mr.  Barton.  —  I  am  going  to  send  down  my  pictures 
to  Boulge,  if  I  can  secure  them:  they  are  not  quite  se- 
cure at  present.  If  they  vanish,  I  snap  my  fingers  at 
them,  Magi  and  all  —  there  is  a  world  (alas!)  elsewhere 
beyond  pictures  —  Oh,  oh,  oh,  oh  — 

I  smoked  a  pipe  with  Carlyle  yesterday.  We  ascended 
from  his  dining  room  carrying  pipes  and  tobacco  up 
through  two  stories  of  his  house,  and  got  into  a  little 
dressing  room  near  the  roof:  there  we  sat  down:  the 
window  was  open  and  looked  out  on  nursery  gardens, 
their  almond  trees  in  blossom,  and  beyond,  bare  walls  of 
houses,  and  over  these,  roofs  and  chimneys,  and  roofs 
and  chimneys,  and  here  and  there  a  steeple,  and  whole 
London  crowned  with  darkness  gathering  behind  like  the 
illimitable  resources  of  a  dream.  I  tried  to  persuade  him 
to  leave  the  accursed  den,  and  he  wished  —  but  —  but  — 
perhaps  he  didn't  wish  on  the  whole. 

When  I  get  back  to  Boulge  I  shall  recover  my  quietude, 
which  is  now  all  in  a  ripple.  But  it  is  a  shame  to  talk 
of  such  things.  So  Churchyard  has  caught  another  Con- 
stable. Did  he  get  off  our  Debach  boy  that  set  the  shed 
on  fire?  Ask  him  that.  Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a 
mind  diseased  &c. 

A  cloud  comes  over  Charlotte  Street  and  seems  as  if  it 
were  sailing  softly  on  the  April  wind  to  fall  in  a  blessed 
shower  upon  the  lilac  buds  and  thirsty  anemones  some- 


302  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  [^Et.  35 

where  in  Essex;  or,  who  knows?  perhaps  at  Boulge.  Out 
will  run  Mrs.  Faiers,  and  with  red  arms  and  face  of  woe 
haul  in  the  struggling  windows  of  the  cottage,  and  make 
all  tight.  Beauty  Bob  will  cast  a  bird's  eye  out  at  the 
shower,  and  bless  the  useful  wet.  Mr.  Loder  will  ob- 
serve to  the  farmer  for  whom  he  is  doing  up  a  dozen  of 
Queen's  Heads  that  it  will  be  of  great  use :  and  the  farmer 
will  agree  that  his  young  barleys  wanted  it  much.  The 
German  Ocean  will  dimple  with  innumerable  pin  points, 
and  porpoises  rolling  near  the  surface  sneeze  with  un- 
usual pellets  of  fresh  water — 

Can  such  things  be, 

And  overcome  us  like  a  summer  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder? 

Oh  this  wonderful  wonderful  world,  and  we  who  stand 
in  the  middle  of  it  are  all  in  a  maze,  except  poor  Matthews 
of  Bedford,  who  fixes  his  eyes  upon  a  wooden  Cross  and 
has  no  misgiving  whatever.  When  I  was  at  his  chapel 
on  Good  Friday,  he  called  at  the  en4  of  his  grand  sermon 
on  some  of  the  people  to  say  merely  this,  that  they  be- 
lieved Christ  had  redeemed  them:  and  first  one  got  up 
and  in  sobs  declared  she  believed  it:  and  then  another, 
and  then  another — I  was  quite  overset : — all  poor  people : 
how  much  richer  than  all  who  fill  the  London  Churches. 
Theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven! 
This  is  a  sad  farrago.  Farewell. 


.  35] 

To  FREDERIC  TENNYSON 
["MY  WAY  OF  LIFE";  CONSTABLE] 

BOULGE,  WOODBRIDGE,  May  24,  '44. 
My  dear  Frederic, 

I  think  you  mean  never  to  write  to  me  again.  But 
you  should,  for  I  enjoy  your  letters  much  for  years  after 
I  have  got  them.  They  tell  me  all  I  should  know  of 
Italy,  besides  many  other  good  things.  I  received  one 
letter  from  you  from  Florence,  and  as  you  gave  me  no 
particular  direction,  I  wrote  to  you  at  the  Poste  Res- 


^Et.  35]  EDWARD    FITZGERALD  303 

tante  there.  I  am  now  inditing  this  letter  on  the  same 
venture.  As  my  location  is  much  more  permanent,  I 
command  you  to  respond  to  me  the  very  day  you  get  this, 
warmed  into  such  faint  inspiration  as  my  turnip  radi- 
ance can  kindle.  You  have  seen  a  turnip  lantern  per- 
haps. Well,  here  I  continue  to  exist:  have  broken  my 
rural  vegetation  by  one  month  in  London,  where  I  saw 
all  the  old  faces — some  only  in  passing,  however — saw  as 
few  sights  as  possible,  leaving  London  two  days  before 
the  Exhibition  opened.  This  is  not  out  of  moroseness 
or  love  of  singularity:  but  I  really  supposed  there  could 
be  nothing  new:  and  therefore  the  best  way  would  [be] 
to  come  new  to  it  oneself  after  three  or  four  years  ab- 
sence. I  see  in  Punch  a  humourous  catalogue  of  sup- 
posed pictures;  Prince  Albert's  favorite  spaniel  and  boot- 
jack, the  Queen's  Macaw  with  a  Muifin  &c.,  by  Landseer 
&c.,  in  which  I  recognize  Thackeray's  fancy.  He  is  in 
full  vigour  play  and  pay  in  London,  writing  in  a  dozen 
reviews,  and  a  score  of  newspapers:  and  while  health 
lasts  he  sails  before  the  wind.  I  have  not  heard  of  Alfred 
since  March.  .  .  .  Spedding  devotes  his  days  to  Lord 
Bacon  in  the  British  Museum:  his  nights  to  the  usual 
profligacy.  .  .  .  My  dear  Frederic,  you  must  select  some 
of  your  poems  and  publish  them:  we  want  sojne  bits  of 
strong  genuine  imagination  to  help  put  to  flight  these 

&c.     Publish  a  book  of  fragments,  if  nothing  else 

but  single  lines,  or  else  the  whole  poems.  When  will  you 
come  to  England  and  do  it?  I  dare  say  I  should  have 
stayed  longer  in  London  had  you  been  there:  but  the 
wits  were  too  much  for  me.  Not  Spedding,  mind:  who 
is  a  dear  fellow.  But  one  finds  few  in  London  serious 
men:  I  mean  serious  even  in  fun:  with  a  true  purpose 
and  character  whatsoever  it  may  be.  London  melts  away 
all  individuality  into  a  common  lump  of  cleverness.  I 
am  amazed  at  the  humour  and  worth  and  noble  feeling 
in  the  country,  however  much  railroads  have  mixed  us 
up  with  metropolitan  civilization.  I  can  still  find  the 
heart  of  England  beating  healthily  down  here  though  no 
one  will  believe  it. 

You  know  my  way  of  life  so"  well  that  I  need  not  de- 
scribe it  to  you,  as  it  has  undergone  no  change  since  I 
saw  you.  I  read  of  mornings;  the  same  old  books  over 


304  EDWAED    EITZGEKALD  [JEt.  35 

and  over  again,  having  no  command  of  new  ones:  walk 
with  my  great  black  dog  of  an  afternoon,  and  at  evening 
sit  with  open  windows,  up  to  which  China  roses  climb, 
with  my  pipe,  while  the  blackbirds  and  thrushes  begin 
to  rustle  bedwards  in  the  garden,  and  the  nightingale 
to  have  the  neighbourhood  to  herself.  We  have  had  such 
a  spring  (bating  the  last  ten  days)  as  would  have  satis- 
fied even  you  with  warmth.  And  such  verdure!  white 
clouds  moving  over  the  new  fledged  tops  of  oak  trees, 
and  acres  of  grass  striving  with  buttercups.  How  old 
to  tell  of,  how  new  to  see!  I  believe  that  Leslie's  Life 
of  Constable  (a  very  charming  book)  has  given  me  a 
fresh  love  of  Spring.  Constable  loved  it  above  all  sea- 
sons: he  hated  Autumn.  When  Sir  G.  Beaumont  who 
was  of  the  old  classical  taste  asked  him  if  he  did  not  find 
it  difficult  to  place  'his  brown  tree  in  his  pictures,  "Not 
at  all,"  said  C.,  "I  never  put  one  in  at  all."  And  when 
Sir  George  was  crying  up  the  tone  of  the  old  masters' 
landscapes,  and  quoting  an  old  violin  as  the  proper  tone 
of  colour  for  a  picture,  Constable  got  up,  took  an  old 
Cremona,  and  laid  it  down  on  the  sunshiny  grass.  You 
would  like  the  book.  In  defiance  of  all  this,  I  have  hung 
my  room  with  pictures,  like  very  old  fiddles  indeed:  but 
I  agree  with  Sir  George  and  Constable  both.  I  like  pic- 
tures that  are  not  like  nature.  I  can  have  nature  better 
than  any  picture  by  looking  out  of  my  window.  Yet  I 
respect  the  man  who  tries  to  paint  up  to  the  freshness 
of  earth  and  sky.  Constable  did  not  wholly  achieve  what 
he  tried  at:  and  perhaps  the  old  masters  chose  a  soberer 
scale  of  things  as  more  within  the  compass  of  lead  paint. 
To  paint  dew  with  lead! 

I  also  plunge  away  at  my  old  Handel  of  nights,  and 
delight  in  the  Allegro  and  Penseroso,  full  of  pomp  and 
fancy.  What  a  pity  Handel  could  not  have  written  music 
to  some  great  Masque,  such  as  Ben  Jonson  or  Milton 
would  have  written,  if  they  had  known  of  such  a  mu- 
sician to  write  for. 


.Et  35]  EDWARD    FITZGERALD  305 

I>Et.  35] 

To  FREDERIC  TENNYSON 

["A  LITTLE   MORE  P^OLDING  OF   THE   HANDS"] 

BOULGE,    WOODBRIDGE,    Oct.    10,    '44. 

My  dear  Frederic, 

You  will  think  I  have  wholly  cut  you.  But  I  wrote 
half  a  letter  to  you  three  months  ago;  and  mislaid  it; 
spent  some  time  in  looking  for  it,  always  hoping;  and 
then  some  more  time  despairing;  and  we  all  know  how 
time  goes  when  [we]  have  got  a  thing  to  do  which  we 
are  rather  lazy  about  doing.  As  for  instance,  getting  up 
in  a  morning.  Not  that  writing  a  letter  to  you  is  so  bad 
as  getting  up;  but  it  is  not  easy  for  mortal  man  who 
has  heard,  seen,  done,  and  thought,  nothing  since  he  last 
wrote,  to  fill  one  of  these  big  foreign  sheets  full  as  a 
foreign  letter  ought  to  be.  I  am  now  returned  to  my 
dull  home  here  after  my  usual  pottering  about  in  the 
midland  counties  of  England.  A  little  Bedfordshire — 
a  little  Northamptonshire — a  little  more  folding  of  the 
hands  —  the  same  faces  —  the  same  fields  —  the  same 
thoughts  occurring  at  the  same  turns  of  road — this  is  all 
I  have  to  tell  of;  nothing  at  all  added — but  the  summer 
gone.  My  garden  is  covered  with  yellow  and  brown" 
leaves;  and  a  man  is  digging  up  the  garden  beds  before 
my  window,  and  will  plant  some  roots  and  bulbs  for  next 
year.  My  parsons  come  and  smoke  with  me  &c.  "The 
round  of  life  from  hour  to  hour" — alluding  doubtless  to 
a  mill-horse.  Alfred  is  reported  to  be  still  at  Park  House, 
where  he  has  been  sojourning  for  two  months,  I  think; 
but  he  never  writes  me  a  word.  Hydropathy  has  done  its 
worst;  he  writes  the  names  of  his  friends  in  water.  .  .  . 
I  spent  two  days  in  London  with  old  Morton  about  five 
weeks  ago;  and  pleasant  days  they  were.  The  rogue  be- 
witches me  with  his  wit  and  honest  speech.  He  also 
stayed  some  while  at  Park  House,  while  Alfred  was  there, 
and  managed  of  course  to  frighten  the  party  occasionally 
with  some  of  his  sallies.  He  often  writes  to  me;  and 
very  good  his  letters  are  all  of  them. 

When  do  you  mean  to  write  me  another?  Morton  told 
me  in  his  last  that  he  had  heard  from  Brotherton  you 
were  gone,  or  going,  to  Naples.  I  dare  say  this  sheet  of 


306  EDWAED    FITZGERALD  [Mt.  35 

mine  will  never  get  to  your  hands.  But  if  it  does,  let 
me  hear  from  you.  Is  Italy  becoming  stale  to  you?  Are 
you  going  to  Cairo  for  fresh  sensations  ?  Thackeray  went 
off  in  a  steamboat  about  the  time  the  Erench  were  be- 
fore Mogadore;  he  was  to  see  those  coasts  and  to  visit 
Jerusalem!  Titmarsh  at  Jerusalem  will  certainly  be  an 
era  in  Christianity.  But  I  suppose  he  will  soon  be  back 
now.  Spedding  is  yet  in  his  highlands,  I  believe,  con- 
sidering Grouse  and  Bacon. 

I  expect  to  run  up  to  London  some  time  during  the 
winter,  just  to  tell  over  old  friends'  faces  and  get  a  sup 
of  music  and  painting.  I  have  bought  very  few  more 
pictures  lately;  and  [heard]  no  music  but  Mendelssohn's 
M.  Night's  Dream.  The  overture,  which  was  published 
long  ago,  is  the  best  part;  but  there  is  a  very  noble  tri- 
umphal march  also. 

Now  I  feel  just  in  the  same  fix  as  I  did  in  that  sheet 
of  paper  whose  fate  is  uncertain.  But  if  I  don't  put  in 
a  word  more,  yet  this  shall  go,  I  am  determined.  Only 
consider  how  it  is  a  matter  of  necessity  that  I  should 
have  nothing  to  say.  If  you  could  see  this  place  of 
Boulge!  You  who  sit  and  survey  marble  palaces  rising 
out  of  cypress  and  olive.  There  is  a  dreadful  vulgar  bal- 
lad, composed  by  Mr.  Balfe,  and  sung  with  the  most  un- 
bounded applause  by  Miss  Rainforth, 

"I  dreamt  that  I  dwelt  in  marble  Halls," 

which  is  sung  and  organed  at  every  corner  in  London.  I 
think  you  may  imagine  what  kind  of  flowing  6/8  time  of 
the  last  degree  of  imbecility  it  is.  The  words  are  written 
by  Mr.  Bunn!  Arcades  ambo. 

I  say  we  shall  see  you  over  in  England  before  long: 
for  I  rather  think  you  want  an  Englishman  to  quarrel 
with  sometimes.  I  mean. quarrel  in  the  sense  of  a  good 
strenuous  difference  of  opinion,  supported  on  either  side 
by  occasional  outbursts  of  spleen.  Come  and  let  us  try. 
You  used  to  irritate  my  vegetable  blood  sometimes. 


Mt.  35]  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  307 

35] 


To  FREDERIC  TENNYSON 

["A  TALENT  FOR  DULLNESS";  SENECA;  THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA] 
BOULGE,  WOODBRIDGE,  Dec.  &,  '44. 

My  dear  Frederic, 

What  is  a  poor  devil  to  do?  You  tell  me  quite  truly 
that  my  letters  have  not  two  ideas  in  them,  and  yet  you 
tell  me  to  write  my  two  ideas  as  soon  as  I  can.  So  in- 
deed it  is  so  far  easy  to  write  down  one's  two  ideas,  if 
they  are  not  very  abstruse  ones:  but  then  what  the  devil 
encouragement  is  it  to  a  poor  fellow  to  expose  his  naked- 
ness so?  All  I  can  say  is,  to  say  again  that  if  you  lived 
in  this  place,  you  would  not  write  so  long  a  letter  as  you 
have  done,  full  of  capital  description  and  all  good  things  ; 
though  without  any  compliment  I  am  sure  you  would 
write  a  better  than  I  shall.  But  you  see  the  original 
fault  in  me  is  that  I  choose  to  be  in  such  a  place  as 
this  at  all;  that  argues  certainly  a  talent  for  dullness 
which  no  situation  nor  intercourse  of  men  could  much 
improve.  It  is  true;  I  really  do  like  to  sit  in  this  dole- 
ful place  with  a  good  fire,  a  cat  and  dog  on  the  rug,  and 
an  old  woman  in  the  kitchen.  This  is-  all  my  live  stock. 
The  house  is  yet  damp  as  last  year;  and  the  great  event 
of  this  winter  is  my  putting  up  a  trough  round  the  eaves 
to  carry  off  the  wet.  There  was  discussion  whether  the 
trough  should  be  of  iron  or  of  zinc:  iron  dear  and  last- 
ing; zinc  the  reverse.  It  was  decided  for  iron;  and  ac- 
cordingly iron  is  put  up. 

Why  should  I  not  live  in  London  and  see  the  world? 
you  say.  Why  then  I  say  as  before,  I  don't  like  it.  I 
think  the  dullness  of  country  people  is  better  than  the 
impudence  of  Londoners;  and  the  fresh  cold  and  wet  of 
our  clay  fields  better  than  a  fog  that  stinks  per  se;  and 
this  room  of  mine,  clean  at  all  events,  better  than  a  dirty 
room  in  Charlotte  St.  If  you,  Morton,  and  Alfred,  were 
more  in  London,  I  should  be  there  more;  but  now  there 
is  but  Spedding  and  Allen  whom  I  care  a  straw  about. 
I  have  written  two  notes  to  Alfred  to  ask  him  just  to 
notify  his  existence  to  me;  but  you  know  he  is  obstinate 
on  that  point.  I  heard  from  Carlyle  that  he  (Alfred) 
had  passed  an  evening  at  Chelsea  much  to  C's  delight; 


308  EDWAKD   FITZGERALD  [^Et.  35 

who  has  opened  the  gates  of  his  Valhalla  to  let  Alfred 
in.  Thackeray  is  at  Malta,  whera  I  am  told  he  means 
to  winter.  .  .  . 

Old  Seneca,  I  have  no  doubt,  was  a  great  humbug  in 
deed,  and  his  books  have  plenty  of  it  in  word;  but  he 
had  got  together  a  vast  deal  of  what  was  not  humbug 
from  others;  and,  as  far  as  I  see,  the  old  philosophers 
are  available  now  as  much  as  two  thousand  years  back. 
Perhaps  you  will  think  that  is  not  saying  much.  Don't 
suppose  I  think  it  good  philosophy  in  myself  to  keep 
here  out  of  the  world,  and  sport  a  gentle  Epicurism;  I 
do  not;  I  only  follow  something  of  a  natural  inclination, 
and  know  not  if  I  could  do  better  under  a  more  complex 
system.  It  is  very  smooth  sailing  hitherto  down  here. 
No  velvet  waistcoat  and  everrlustrous  pumps  to  be  con- 
sidered; no  bon  mots  got  up;  no  information  necessary. 
There  is  a  pipe  for  the  parsons  to  smoke,  and  quite  as 
much  bon  mots,  literature,  and  philosophy  as  they  care 
for  without  any  trouble  at  all.  If  we  could  but  feed  our 
poor!  It  is  now  the  8th  of  December;  it  has  blown  a 
most  desperate  East  wind,  all  razors;  a  wind  like  one 
of  those  knives  one  sees  at  shops  in  London,  with  365 
blades  all  drawn  and  pointed;  the  wheat  is  all  sown;  the 
fallows  cannot  be  ploughed.  What  are  all  the  poor  folks 
to  do  during  the  winter?  And  they  persist  in  having  the 
same  enormous  families  they  used  to  do;  a  woman  came 
to  me  two  days  [ago]  who  had  seventeen  children !  What 
farmers  are  to  employ  all  these?  What  landlord  can 
find  room  for  them?  The  law  of  generation  must  be  re- 
pealed. The  London  press  does  nothing  but  rail  at  us 
poor  country  folks  for  our  cruelty.  I  am  glad  they  do 
so;  for  there  is  much  to  be  set  right.  But  I  want  to 
know  if  the  Editor  of  the  Times  is  more  attentive  to 
his  devils,  their  wives  and  families,  than  our  squires  and 
squiresses  and  pa'rsons  are  to  their  fellow  parishioners. 
Punch  also  assumes  a  tone  of  virtuous  satire,  from  the 
mouth  of  Mr.  Douglas  Jerrold!  It  is  easy  to  sit  in  arm 
chairs  at  a  club  in  Pall  Mall  and  rail  011  the  stupidity 
and  brutality  of  those  in  High  Suffolk. 

Come,  I  have  got  more  than  two  ideas  into  this  sheet; 
but  I  don't  know  if  you  won't  dislike  them  worse  than 
mere  nothing.  But  I  was  determined  to  fill  my  letter. 


.Kt.  35]  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  309 

Yes,  you  are  to  know  that  I  slept  at  Woodbridge  last 
night,  went  to  church  there  this  morning,  where  every 
one  sat  with  a  purple  nose,  and  heard  a  dismal  well- 
meant  sermon;  and  the  organ  blew  us  out  with  one 
grand  idea  at  all  events,  one  of  old  Handel's  Coronation 
Anthems;  that  I  dined  early,  also  in  Woodbridge;  and 
walked  up  here  with  a  tremendous  East  wind  blowing 
sleet  in  my  face  from  over  the  German  Sea,  that  I  found 
your  letter  when  I  entered  my  room;  and  reading  it 
through,  determined  to  spin  you  off  a  sheet  incontinently, 
and  lo !  here  it  is !  Now  or  never !  I  shall  now  have  my 
tea  in,  and  read  over  your  letter  again  while  at  it.  You 
are  quite  right  in  saying  that  Gravesend  excursions  with 
you  do  me  good.  When  did  I  doubt  it?  I  remember 
them  with  great  pleasure;  few  of  my  travels  so  much  so. 
I  like  a  short  journey  in  good  company;  and  I  like  you 
all  the  better  for  your  Englishman's  humours.  One 
doesn't  find  such  things  in  London;  something  more  like 
it  here  in  the  country,  where  every  one,  with  whatever 
natural  stock  of  intellect  endowed,  at  least  grows  up  his 
own  way,  and  flings  his  branches  about  him,  not  stretched 
on  the  espalier  of  London  dinner-table  company. 

P.S.  Next  morning.  Snow  over  the  ground.  We  have 
our  wonders  of  inundation  in  Suffolk  also,  I  can  tell  you. 
For  three  weeks  ago  such  floods  came,  that  an  old  woman 
was  carried  off  as  she  was  retiring  from  a  beer  house 
about  9  p.m.,  and  drowned.  She  was  probably  half  seas 
over  before  she  left  the  beer  house. 

And  three  nights  ago  I  looked  out  at  about  ten  o'clock 
at  night,  before  going  to  bed.  It  seemed  perfectly  still; 
frosty,  and  the  stars  shining  bright.  I  heard  a  continu- 
ous moaning  sound,  which  I  knew  to  be,  not  that  of  an 
infant  exposed,  or  female  ravished,  but  of  the  sea,  more 
than  ten  miles  off!  What  little  wind  there  was  carried 
to  us  the  murmurs  of  the  waves  circulating  round  these 
coasts  so  far  over  a  flat  country.  But  people  here  think 
that  this  sound  so  heard  is  not  from  the  waves  that  break, 
but  a  kind  of  prophetic  voice  from  the  body  of  the  sea 
itself  announcing  great  gales.  Sure  enough  we  have  got 
them,  however  heralded.  Now  I  say  that  all  this  shows 
that  we  in  this  Suffolk  are  not  so  completely  given  over 


310  EDWAKD   FITZGEKALD  [Mt.  36 

to  prose  and  turnips  as  some  would  have  us.  I  always 
said  that  being  near  the  sea,  and  being  able  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  it  from  the  tops  of  hills,  and  of  houses;  re- 
deemed Suffolk  from  dulness;  and  at  all  events  that  our 
turnip  fields,  dull  in  themselves,  were  at  least  set  all 
round  with  an  undeniably  poetic  element.  And  so  I  see 
Arnold  says;  he  enumerates  five  inland  counties  as  the 
only  parts  of  England  for  which  nothing  could  be  said 
in  praise.  Not  that  I  agree  with  him  there  neither;  I 
cannot  allow  the  valley  of  the  Ouse  about  which  some  of 
my  pleasantest  recollections  hang  to  be  without  its  great 
charm.  W.  Browne,  whom  you  despised,  is  married,  and 
I  shall  see  but  little  of  him  for  the  future.  I  have  laid 
by  my  rod  and  line  by  the  willows  of  the  Ouse  forever. 
"He  is  married  and  cannot  come."  This  change  is  the 
true  meaning  of  those  verses, 

Friend  after  friend  departs; 
Who  has  not  lost  a  friend? 

and  so  on.  If  I  were  conscious  of  being  steadfast  and 
good  humoured  enough  I  would  marry  to-morrow.  But 
a  humourist  is  best  by  himself. 


36] 

To  FREDERIC  TENNYSON 
["THESE  PAINTERS";  "THE  GREAT  GARDEN  BAND"] 

BOULGE,  WOODBRIDGE,  June  12,  '45. 
Dear  Frederic, 

Though  I  write  from  Boulge  you  are  not  to  suppose 
I  have  been  here  ever  since  I  last  wrote  to  you.  On  the 
contrary,  I  am  but  just  returned  from  London,  where  I 
spent  a  month,  and  saw  all  the  sights  and  all  the  people 
I  cared  to  see.  But  what  am  I  to  tell'  you  of  them  ? 
.Spedding,  you  know,  does  not  change :  he  is  now  the  same 
that  he  was  fourteen  years  old  when  I  first  knew  him  at 
school  more  than  twenty  years  ago ;  wise,  calm,  bald,  com- 
bining the  best  qualities  of  Youth  and  Age.  And  then 
as  to  things  seen;  you  know  that  one  Exhibition  tells 
another,  and  one  Panorama  certifieth  another  &c.  If 
you  want  to  know  something  of  the  Exhibition  however, 
read  Eraser's  Magazine  for  this  month;  there  Thackeray 


Ml.  36]  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  311 

has  a  paper  on  the  matter,  ^full  of  fun.  I  met  Stone  in 
the  street  the  other  day;  he  took  me  by  the  button,  and 
told  me  in  perfect  sincerity,  and  with  increasing  warmth, 
how,  though  he  loved  old  Thackeray,  yet  these  yearly 
out-speakings  of  his  sorely  tired  him;  not  on  account  of 
himself  (Stone),  but  on  account  of  some  of  his  friends, 
Charles  Landseer,  Maclise  &c.  Stone  worked  himself  up 
to  such  a  pitch  under  the  pressure  of  forced  calmness 
that  he  at  last  said  Thackeray  would  get  himself  horse- 
whipped one  day  by  one  of  these  infuriated  Apelleses. 
At  this  I,  who  had  partly  agreed  with  Stone  that  ridi- 
cule, though  true,  needs  not  always  to  be  spoken,  began 
to  laugh:  and  told  him  two  could  play  at  that  game. 
These  painters  cling  together,  and  bolster  each  other  up, 
to  such  a  degree,  that  they  really  have  persuaded  them- 
selves that  anyone  who  ventures  to  laugh  at  one  of  their 
drawings,  exhibited  publickly  for  the  express  purpose  of 
criticism,  insults  the  whole  corps.  In  the  mean  while 
old  Thackeray  laughs  at  all  this;  and  goes  on  in  his  own 
way;  writing  hard  for  half  a  dozen  Reviews  and  News- 
papers all  the  morning;  dining,  drinking,  and  talking  of 
a  night ;  managing  to  preserve  a  fresh  colour  and  per- 
petual flow  of  spirits  under  a  wear-and-tear  of  thinking 
and  feeding  that  would  have  knocked  up  any  other  man 
I  know  two  years  ago,  at  least.  .  .  . 

Alfred  was  in  London  the  first  week  of  my  stay  there. 
He  was  looking  well,  and  in  good  spirits;  and  had  got 
two  hundred  lines  of  a  new  poem  in  a  butcher's  book.  He 
went  down  to  Eastbourne  in  Sussex;  where  I  believe  he 
now  is.  He  and  I  made  a  plan  to  go  to  the  coast  of  Corn- 
wall or  Wales  this  summer;  but  I  suppose  we  shall  man- 
age never  to  do  it.  I  find  I  must  go  to  Ireland;  which 
I  had  not  intended  to  do  this  year.  ... 

Now  I  have  told  you  all  my  London  news.  You  will 
not  hear  of  my  Cottage  and  Garden;  so  now  I  will  shut 
up  shop  and  have  done.  We  have  had  a  dismal  wet  May; 
but  now  June  is  recompensing  us  for  all,  and  Dr.  Blow 
may  be  said  to  be  leading  the  great  Garden  Band  in  full 
chorus.  This  is  a  pun,  which,  profound  in  itself,  you 
must  not  expect  to  enjoy  at  first  reading.  I  am  not  [sure] 
that  I  am  myself  conscious  of  the  full  meaning  of  it. 
I  know  it  is  very  hot  weather;  the  distant  woods  steam- 


312  EDWAKD   FITZGERALD  Mt.  38] 

ing  blue  under  the  noonday  sun.  I  suppose  you  are  living 
without  clothes  in  wells,  where  you  are.  Remember  me 
to  your  brothers;  write  soon;  and  believe  me  ever  yours, 

E.  FITZGERALD. 

As  to  going  to  Italy,  alas!  I  have  less  call  to  do  that 
than  ever:  I  never  shall  go.  You  must  come  over  here 
about  your  Railroad  land. 


[  JSt.  38] 

To   SAMUEL  LAURENCE 
[A  PORTRAIT  OF  A  QUAKER  POET] 

GELDESTONE  HALL,  BECCLES, 

[June  20,  1847.] 
My  dear  Laurence, — 

I  have  had  another  letter  from  the  Bartons  asking  about 
your  advent.  In  fact  Barton's  daughter  is  anxious  for 
her  Father's  [portrait]  to  be  done,  and  done  this  year. 
He  is  now  sixty-three;  and  it  won't  do,  you  know,  for 
grand-climacterical  people  to  procrastinate — nay,  to  pro- 
annuate — which  is  a  new,  and,  for  all  I  see,  a  very  bad 
word.  But,  be  this  as  it  may,  do  you  come  down  to 
Woodbridge  this  summer  if  you  can;  and  that  you  can, 
I*  doubt  not;  since  it  is  no  great  things  out  of  your  way 
to  or  from  Norwich. 

The  means  to  get  to  Ipswich  are — A  steamboat  will 
bring  you  for  five  shillings  (a  very  pretty  sail)  from  the 
Custom  House  to  Ipswich,  the  Orwell  steamer;  going 
twice  a  week,  and  heard  of  directly  in  the  fishy  latitudes 
of  London  Bridge.  Or,  a  railroad  brings  you  for  the 
same  sum ;  if  you  will  travel  third  class,  which  I  some- 
times do  in  fine  weather.  I  should  recommend  that;  the 
time  being  so  short,  so  certain;  and  no  eating  and  drink- 
ing by  the  way,  as  must  be  in  a  steamer.  At  Ipswich,  I 
pick  you  up  with  the  washerwoman's  pony  and  take  you 
to  Woodbridge.  There  Barton  sits  with  the  tea  already 
laid  out;  and  Miss  about  to  manage  the  urn;  plain, 
agreeable  people.  At  Woodbridge  too  is  my  little  friend 
Churchyard,  with  whom  we  shall  sup  off  toasted  cheese 
and  porter.  Then,  last  and  not  least,  the  sweet  retire- 
ment of  Boulge :  where  the  Graces  and  Muses  &c. 


Mi.  38]  EDWAED   FITZGERALD  313 

I  write  thus  much  because  my  friends  seem  anxious; 
my  friend,  I  mean,  Miss  Barton :  for  Barton  pretends 
he  dreads  having  his  portrait  done;  which  is  "my  eye." 
So  come  and  do  it.  He  is  a  generous,  worthy,  simple- 
hearted,  fellow :  worth  ten  thousand  better  wits.  Then 
you  shall  see  all  the  faded  tapestry  of  country  town  life: 
London  jokes  worn  threadbare;  third  rate  accomplish- 
ments infinitely  prized;  scandal  removed  from  Dukes  and 
Duchesses  to  the  Parson,  the  Banker,  the  Commissioner 
of  Excise,  and  the  Attorney. 

Let  me  hear  from  you  soon  that  you  are  coming.  I 
shall  return  to  Boulge  the  end  of  this  week. 

P. 8. — Come  if  you  can  the  latter  part  of  the  week; 
when  the  Quaker  is  most  at  leisure.  There  is  a  daily 
coach  from  Woodbridge  to  Norwich. 

[^Et.  38] 

To  SAMUEL  LAURENCE 
["WORDSWORTH — OR  SKIDDAW,  OR  ANY  OF  THE  BEAUTIES?"] 

BOULGE,   WOODBRIDGE, 

[30  Jan.,  1848.] 
My  dear  Laurence, — 

How  are  you — how  are  you  getting  on  ?  A  voice  from 
the  tombs  thus  addresses  you;  respect  the  dead  and  an- 
swer. Barton  is  well;  that  is,  I  left  him  well  on  Friday; 
but  he  was  just  going  off  to  attend  a  Quaker's  funeral 
in  the  snow:  whether  he  has  survived  that,  I  don't  know. 
To-morrow  is  his  Birth-day:  and  I  am  going  (if  he  be 
alive)  to  help  him  to  celebrate  it.  His  portrait  has  been 
hung  (under  my  directions)  over  the  mantel-piece  in  his 
sitting  room,  with  a  broad  margin  of  some  red  stuff 
behind  it,  to  set  it  off.  You  may  turn  up  your  nose  at 
all  this;  but  let  me  tell  you  it  is  considered  one  of  the 
happiest  contrivances  ever  adopted  in  Woodbridge.  Nine- 
teen people  out  of  twenty  like  the  portrait  much;  the 
twentieth,  you  may  be  sure,  is  a  man  of  no  taste  at  all. 

I  hear  you  were  for  a  long  time  in  Cumberland.  Did 
you  paint  a  waterfall — or  old  Wordsworth — or  Skiddaw, 
or  any  of  the  beauties?  Did  you  see  anything  so  in- 
viting to  the  pencil  as  the  river  Deben?  When  are  you 


314  EDWARD    FITZGERALD  ^Et.  39] 

coming  to  see  us  again?  Churchyard  relies  on  your 
coming;  but  then  he  is  a  very  sanguine  man,  and,  though 
a  lawyer,  wonderfully  confident  in  the  promises  of  men. 
How  are  all  your  family?  You  see  I  have  asked  you 
some  questions;  so  you  must  answer  them;  and  believe 
me  yours  truly, 

E.  FITZGERALD. 


.  39] 

To  FREDERIC  TENNYSON 
[SPEDDING;  ORATORIOS;  "VANITY  FAIR"] 

BOULGE,  May  4,  1848. 
.My  dear  Frederic,  — 

When  you  talk  of  two  idle  men  not  taking  the  trouble 
to  keep  up  a  little  intercourse  by  letters,  you  do  not,  in 
conscience,  reflect  upon  me;  who,  you  know,  am  very 
active  in  answering  almost  by  return  of  post.  It  is  some 
six  months  since  you  must  have  got  my  last  letter,  full 
of  most  instructive  advice  concerning  my  namesake;  of 
whom,  and  of  which,  you  say  nothing.  How  much  has 
he  borrowed  of  you?  Is  he  now  living  on  the  top  of 
your  hospitable  roof?  Do  you  think  him  the  most  ill- 
used  of  men?  I  see  great  advertisements  in  the  papers 
about  your  great  Grimsby  Railway.  .  .  .  Does  it  pay? 
does  it  pay  all  but  you  who  live  only  on  the  fine  promises 
of  the  lawyers  and  directors  engaged  in  it  ?  You  know 
England  has  had  a  famous  winter  of  it  for  commercial 
troubles:  my  family  has  not  escaped  the  agitation:  I 
even  now  doubt  if  I  must  not  give  up  my  daily  two- 
pennyworth  of  cream  and  take  to  milk:  and  give  up 
my  Spectator  and  Athenaeum.  I  don't  trouble  myself 
much  about  all  this:  for,  unless  the  kingdom  goes  to 
pieces  by  national  bankruptcy,  I  shall  probably  have 
enough  to  live  on:  and,  luckily,  every  year  I  want  less: 
What  do  you  think  of  my  not  going  up  to  London  this 
year;  to  see  exhibitions,  to  hear  operas,  and  so  on!  In- 
deed I  do  not  think  I  shall  go:  and  I  have  no  great 
desire  to  go.  I  hear  of  nothing  new  in  any  way  worth 
going  up  for.  I  have  never  yet  heard  the  famous  Jenny 
Lind,  whom  all  the  world  raves  about.  Spedding  is  espe- 
cially mad  about  her,  I  understand:  and,  after  that,  is 


39]  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  815 

it  not  best  for  weaker  vessels  to  keep  out  of  her  way? 
Night  after  night  is  that  bald  head  seen  in  one  particu- 
lar position  in  the  Opera  house,  in  a  stall;  the  miserable 
man  has  forgotten  Bacon  and  philosophy,  and  goes  after 
strange  women.  There  is  no  doubt  this  lady  is  a  won- 
derful singer;  but  I  will  not  go  into  hot  crowds  till  an- 
other Pasta  comes;  I  have  heard  no  one  since  her  worth 
being  crushed  for.  And  to  perform  in  one's  head  one  of 
Handel's  choruses  is  better  than  most  of  the  Exeter  Hall 
performances.  I  went  to  hear  Mendelssohn's  Elijah  last 
spring:  and  found  it  wasn't  at  all  worth  the  trouble. 
Though  very  good  music  it  is  not  original:  Haydn  much 
better.  I  think  the  day  of  Oratorios  is  gone,  like  the  day 
for  painting  Holy  Familys  &c.  But  we  cannot  get  tired 
of  what  has  been  done  in  Oratorios  more  than  we  can 
get  tired  of  Raffaelle.  Mendelssohn  is  really  original  and 
beautiful  in  romantic  music:  witness  his  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  and  Fingal's  Cave. 

I  had  a  note  from  Alfred  three  months  ago.  He  was 
then  in  London:  but  is  now  in  Ireland,  I  think,  adding 
to  his  new  poem,  the  Princess.  Have  you  seen  it  ?  I  am 
considered  a  great  heretic  for  abusing  it;  it  seems  to  me 
a  wretched  waste  of  power  at  a  time  of  life  when  a 
man  ought  to  be  doing  his  best;  and  I  almost  feel  hope- 
less about  Alfred  now.  I  mean,  about 'his  doing  what  he 
was  born  to  do.  ...  On  the  other  hand,  Thackeray  is 
progressing  greatly  in  his  line:  he  publishes  a  Novel  in 
numbers — Vanity  Fair — which  began  dull,  I  thought:  but 
gets  better  every  number,  and  has  some  very  fine  things 
indeed  in  it.  He  is  become  a  great  man  I  am  told :  goes 
to  Holland  House,  and  Devonshire  House:  and  for  some 
reason  or  other,  will  not  write  a  word  to  me.  But  I  am 
sure  this  is  not  because  he  is  asked  to  Holland  House. 
Dickens  has  fallen  off  in  his  last  novel,  just  completed; 
but  there  are  wonderful  things  in  it  too.  Do  you  ever 
get  a  glimpse  of  any  of  these  things? 

As  to  public  affairs,  they  are  so  wonderful  that  one 
does  not  know  where  to  begin.  If  England  maintains  her 
own  this  year,  she  must  have  the  elements  of  long  lasting 
in  her.  I  think  People  begin  to  wish  we  had  no  more 
to  do  with  Ireland:  but  the  Whigs  will  never  listen  to 
a  doctrine  which  was  never  heard  of  in  Holland  House. 


316  EDWARD    FITZGEKALD  [^£t.  39 

I  am  glad  Italy  is  free:  and  surely  there  is  nothing  for 
her  now  but  a  Republic.  It  is  well  to  stand  by  old  kings 
who  have  done  well  by  us:  but  it  is  too  late  in  the  day 
to  begin  Royalty. 

If  anything  could  tempt  me  so  far  as  Italy,  it  would 
certainly  be  your  presence  in  Florence.  But  I  boggle 
about  going  twenty  miles,  and  cui  bono?  deadens  me  more 
and  more. 

July  2.  All  that  precedes  was  written  six  weeks  ago, 
when  I  was  obliged  to  go  up  to  London  on  business.  .  .  . 
I  saw  Alfred,  and  the  rest  of  the  sgavans.  Thackeray  is 
a  great  man:  goes  to  Devonshire  House* &c. :  and  his  book 
(which  is  capital)  is  read  by  the  Great:  and  will,  I  hope, 
do  them  good.  I  heard  but  little  music:  the  glorious 
Acis  and  Galatea;  and  the  redoubtable  Jenny  Lind,  for 
the  first  time.  I  was  disappointed  in  her:  but  am  told 
this  is  all  my  fault.  As  to  naming  her  in  the  same 
Olympiad  with  great  old  Pasta,  I  am  sure  that  is  ridicu- 
lous. The  Exhibition  is  like  most  others  you  have  seen; 
worse  perhaps.  There  is  an  "Aaron"  and  a  "John  the 
Baptist"  by  Etty  far  worse"  than  the  Saracen's  Head  on 
Ludgate  Hill.  Moore  is  turned  Picture  dealer:  and  that 
high  Roman  virtue  in  which  he  indulged  is  likely  to 
suffer  a  Picture-dealer's  change,  I  think.  Carlyle  writes 
in  the  Examiner  about  Ireland:  raves  and  foams,  but  has 
nothing  to  propose.  Spedding  prospers  with  Bacon.  Al- 
fred seemed  to  me  in  fair  plight:  much  dining  out:  and 
his  last  Poem  is  well  liked  I  believe.  Morton  is  still  at 
Lisbon,  I  believe  also:  but  I  have  not  written  to  him, 
nor  heard  from  him.  And  now,  my  dear  Frederic,  I  must 
shut  up.  Do  not  neglect  to  write  to  me  sometimes.  Al- 
fred said  you  ought  to  be  in  England  about  your  Grimsby 
Land. 


^Et.  50]  EDWAKD    FITZGERALD  317 

[>Et.  50] 

To  W.  F.  POLLOCK 
[MISCELLANEOUS  READING] 

10  MARINE  TERRACE, 

LOWESTOFTV, 

Febr.  23,  '60. 
My  dear  Pollock, — 

"Me  voila  ici"  still!  having  weathered  it  out  so  long. 
No  bad  Place,  I  assure  you,  though  you  who  are  accus- 
tomed to  Pall  Mall,  Clubs  &c.  wouldn't  like  it.  Mudie 
finds  one  out  easily:  and  the  London  Library  too:  and 
altogether  I  can't  complain  of  not  getting  such  drowsy 
Books  as  I  want.  Hakluyt  lasted  a  long  while:  then 
came  Captain  Cook,  whom  I  hadn't  read  since  I  was  a 
Boy,  and  whom  I  was  very  glad  to  see  again.  But  he 
soon  evaporates  in  his  large  Type  Quartos.  I  can  hardly 
manage  Emerson  Tennent's  Ceylon:  a  very  dry  Cata- 
logue Raisonee  of  the  Place.  A  little  Essay  of  DeQuin- 
cey's  gave  me  a  better  idea  of  it  (as  I  suppose)  in  some 
twenty  or  thirty  pages.  Anyhow,  I  prefer  Lowestoft,  con- 
sidering the  Snakes,  Sandleaches,  Mosquitos  &c.  I  sup- 
pose Russell's  Indian  Diary  is  over-coloured:  but  I  feel 
sure  it's  true  in  the  main:  and  he  has  the  Art  to  make 
one  feel  in  the  thick  of  it;  quite  enough  in  the  Thick, 
however.  Sir  C.  Napier  came  here  to  try  and  get  the 
Beachmen  to  enlist  in  the  Naval  Reserve.  Not  one  would 
go :  they  won't  give  up  their  Independence :  and  so  really 
half  starve  here  during  Winter.  Then  Spring  comes  and 
they  go  and  catch  the  Herrings  which,  if  left  alone, 
would  multiply  by  millions  by  Autumn:  and  so  kill  their 
Golden  Goose.  They  are  a  strange  set  of  Fellows.  I 
think  a  Law  ought  to  be  made  against  their  Spring 
Fishing:  more  important,  for  their  own  sakes,  than  Game 
Laws. 

I  laid  out  half  a  crown  on  your  Fraser :  and  liked  much 
of  it  very  much:  especially  the  Beginning  about  the 
Advantage  the  Novelist  has  over  the  Playwriter.  A  little 
too  much  always  about  Miss  Austen,  whom  yet  I  think 
quite  capital  in  a  Circle  I  have  found  quite  unendurable 
to  walk  in.  Thackeray's  first  Number  was  famous  I 
thought :  his  own  little  Roundabout  Paper  so  pleasant :  but 


318  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  [Mt.  54 

the  Second  Number;  I  say,  lets  the  Cockney  in  already: 
about  Hogarth:  Lewes  is  vulgar:  and  I  don't  think  one 
can  care  much  for  Thackeray's  Novel.*  He  is  always 
talking  so  of  himself,  too.  I  have  been  very  glad  to 
find  I  could  take  to  a  Novel  again,  in  Trollope's  Bar- 
chester  Towers  &c. :  not  perfect,  like  Miss  Austen :  but 
then  so  much  wider  Scope:  and  perfect  enough  to  make 
me  feel  I  know  the  People  though  caricatured  or  care- 
lessly drawn.  I  doubt  if  you  can  read  my  writing  here: 
or  whether  it  will  be  worth  your  Pains  to  do  so.  If  you 
can,  or  can  not,  one  Day  write  me  a  Line  which  I  will 
read.  I  suppose  when  the  Fields  and  Hedges  begin  to 
grow  green  I  shall  move  a  little  further '  inland  to  be 
among  them. 


[>Et.  54]  To  W.  B.  DONNE 

["MY  NEW  BOAT"] 

MARKET  HILL,  WOODBRIDGE, 

Sat.,  July  18,  '63. 
My  dear  Donne, — 

...  I  can  hardly  tell  you  whether  I  am  much  pleased 
with  my  new  Boat;  for  I  hardly  know  myself.  She  is 
(as  I  doubted  would  be  from  the  first)  rather  awkward 
in  our  narrow  River;  but  then  she  was  to  be  a  good 
Sea-boat;  and  I  don't  know  but  she  is;  and  will  be  better 
in  all  ways  when  we  have  got  her  in  proper  trim.  Yes- 
terday we  gave  her  what  they  call  "a  tuning"  in  a  rather 
heavy  swell  round  Orf ord  Ness :  and  she  did  well  without 
a  reef  &c.  But,  now  all  is  got,  I  don't  any  the  more 
want  to  go  far  away  by  Sea,  any  more  than  by  Land; 
having  no  curiosity  left  for  other  Places,  and  glad  to 
get  back  to  my  own  Chair  and  Bed  after  three  or  four 
Days'  Absence.  So  long  as  I  get  on  the  Sea  from  time 
to  time,  it  is  much  the  same  to  me  whether  off  Aldbro' 
or  Penzance.  And  I  find  I  can't  sleep  so  well  on  board 
as  I  used  to  do  thirty  years  ago:  and  not  to  get  one's 
Sleep,  you  know,  indisposes  one  more  or  less  for  the 
Day.  However,  we  talk  of  Dover,  Folkestone,  Holland 
&c.  which  will  give  one's  sleeping  Talents  a  tuning. 

*  The   Virginians. 


Mt.  54]  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  319 

[^Et.  54] 

To  GEORGE  CRABBE 

[AN    UNSATISFACTORY    TRIP    TO    HOLLAND] 

WOODBRIDGE,  August  4,  [1863.] 
My  dear  George, — 

I  have  at  last  done  my  Holland :  you  won't  be  surprised 
to  hear  that  I  did  it  in  two  days,  and  was  too  glad  to 
rush  home  on  the  first  pretence,  after  (as  usual)  seeing 
nothing  I  eared  the  least  about.  The  Country  itself  I 
had  seen  long  before  in  Dutch  Pictures,  and  between 
Beccles  and  Norwich:  the  Towns  I  had  seen  in  Pictur- 
esque Annuals,  Drop  Scenes  &c. 

But  the  Pictures — the  Pictures — themselves? 

Well,  you  know  how  I  am  sure  to  mismanage:  but  you 
will  hardly  believe,  even  of  me,  that  I  never  saw  what 
was  most  worth  seeing,  the  Hague  Gallery!  But  so  it 
was :  had  I  been  by  myself,  I  should  have  gone  off  directly 
(after  landing  at  Rotterdam)  to  that:  but  Mr.  Manby 
was  with  me:  and  he  thought  best  to  see  about  Rotterdam 
first:  which  was  last  Thursday,  at  whose  earliest  Dawn 
we  arrived.  So  we  tore  about  in  an  open  Cab :  saw 
nothing:  the  Gallery  not  worth  a  visit:  and  at  night  I 
was  half  dead  with  weariness.  Then  again  on  Friday  I, 
by  myself,  should  have  started  for  the  Hague:  but  as 
Amsterdam  was  also  to  be  done,  we  thought  best  to  go 
there  (as  furthest)  first.  So  we  went:  tore  about  the 
town  in  a  Cab  as  before :  and  I  raced  through  the  Mu- 
seum seeing  (I  must  say)  little  better  than  what  I  have 
seen  over  and  over  again  in  England.  I  couldn't  admire 
the  Night-watch  much:  Van  der  Heist's  very  good  pic- 
ture seemed  to  me  to  have  been  cleaned:  I  thought  the 
Rembrandt  Burgomasters  worth  all  the  rest  put  together. 
But  I  certainly  looked  very  flimsily  at  all. 

Well,  all  this  done,  away  we  went  to  the  Hague:  ar- 
riving there  just  as  the  Museum  closed  for  that  day; 
next  Day  (Saturday)  it  was  not  to  be  open  at  all  (I 
having  proposed  to  wait  in  case  it  should),  and  on  Sun- 
day only  from  12  to  2.  Hearing  all  this,  in  Rage  and 
Despair  I  tore  back  to  Rotterdam:  and  on  Saturday 
Morning  got  the  Boat  out  of  the  muddy  Canal  in  which 
she  lay  and  tore  back  down  the  Maas  &c.  so  as  to  reach 


320  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  [45t.  54 

dear  old  Bawdsey  shortly  after  Sunday's  Sunrise.  Oh  my 
delight  when  I  heard  them  call  out  "Orford  Lights!"  as 
the  Boat  was  plunging  over  the  Swell. 

All  this  is  very  stupid,  really  wrong:  but  you  are  not 
surprised  at  it  in  me.  One  reason  however  of  my  Dis- 
gust was,  that  we  (in  our  Boat)  were  shut  up  (as  I  said) 
in  the  Canal,  where  I  couldn't  breathe.  I  begged  Mr. 
Manby  to  let  me  take  him  to  an  Inn:  he  would  stick  to 
his  Ship,  he  said:  and  I  didn't  like  to  leave  him.  Then 
it  was  Murray  who  misled  me  about  the  Hague  Gallery: 
he  knew  nothing  about  its  being  shut  on  Saturdays.  Then 
again  we  neither  of  us  knew  a  word  of  Dutch :  and  I 
was  surprised  how  little  was  known  of  English  in  return. 

But  I  shall  say  no  more.  I  think  it  is  the  last  foreign 
Travel  I  shall  ever  undertake;  unless  I  should  go  with 
you  to  see  the  Dresden  Madonna:  to  which  there  is  one 
less  impediment  now  Holland  is  not  to  be  gone  through. 
...  I  am  the  Colour  of  a  Lobster  with  Sea-faring :  and 
my  eyes  smart:  so  Good-bye.  Let  me  hear  of  you.  Ever 
yours,  E.  F.  G. 

Oh  dear! — Rembrandt's  Dissection — where  and  how  did 
I  miss  that? 


.  54] 

To   SAMUEL  LAURENCE 
[DEATH  OF  THACKERAY] 

MARKET  HILL:  WOODBRIDGE, 

Jan.  7,  '64. 
Dear  Laurence, — 

...  I  want  to  know  about  your  two  Portraits  of  Thack- 
eray :  the  first  one  (which  I  think  Smith  and  Elder  have) 
I  know  by  the  print:  I  want  to  know  about  one  you  last 
did  (some  two  years  ago?)  whether  you  think  it  as  good 
and  characteristic:  and  also  who  has  it.  Frederic  Tenny- 
son sent  me  a  photograph  of  W.  M.  T.  old,  white,  massive, 
and  melancholy,  sitting  in  his  Library. 

I  am  surprized  almost  to  find  how  much  I  a"m  thinking 
of  him :  so  little  as  I  had  seen  him  for  the  last  ten  years ; 
not  once  for  the  last  five.  I  had  been  told — by  you,  for 
one — that  he  was  spoiled.  I  am  glad  therefore  that  I 


^Et.  66]  EDWARD    FITZGERALD  321 

have  scarce  seen  him  since  he  was  "old  Thackeray."  I 
keep  reading  his  Newcomes  of  nights,  and  as  it  were 
hear  him  saying  so  much  in  it;  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if 
he  might  be  coming  up  my  Stairs,  and  about  to  come 
(singing)  into  my  Room,  as  in  old  Charlotte  Street  &c. 
thirty  years  ago. 


.  66] 

To  Cr  E.  NORTON 
["SCOLDING  ALL  THE  WORLD";  AMERICAN  WRITERS] 

LITTLE  GRANGE,  WOODBRIDGE, 

Jan.  23,  76. 
My  dear  Sir, — 

I  suppose  you  may  see  one  of  the  Carlyle  Medallions: 
and  you  can  judge  better  of  the  likeness  than  I,  who 
have  not  been  to  Chelsea,  and  hardly  out  of  Suffolk, 
these  fifteen  years  and  more.  I  dare  say  it  is  like  him: 
but  his  Profile  is  not  his  best  phase.  In  two  notes  dic- 
tated by  him  since  that  Business  he  has  not  adverted  to 
it:  I  think  he  must  be  a  little  ashamed  of  it,  though  it 
would  not  do  to  say  so  in  return,  I  suppose.  And  yet 
I  think  he  might  have  declined  the  Honours  of  a  Life  of 
"Heroism."  I  have  no  doubt  he  would  have  played  a 
Brave  Man's  Part  if  called  on;  but,  meanwhile,  he  has 
only  sat  pretty  comfortably  at  Chelsea,  scolding  all  the 
world  for  not  being  Heroic,  and  not  always  very  precise 
in  telling  them  how.  He  has,  however,  been  so  far 
heroic,  as  to  be  always  independent,  whether  of  Wealth, 
Rank,  and  Coteries  of  all  sorts:  nay,  apt  to  fly  in  the 
face  of  some  who  courted  him.  I  suppose  he  is  changed, 
or  subdued,  at  eighty;  but  up  to  the  last  ten  years  he 
seemed  to  me  just  the  same  as  when  I  first  knew  him 
five  and  thirty  years  ago.  What  a  Fortune  he  might 
have  made  by  showing  himself  about  as  a  Lecturer,  as 
Thackeray  and  Dickens  did;  I  don't  mean  they  did  it 
for  Vanity:  but  to  make  money:  and  that  to  spend 
generously.  Carlyle  did  indeed  lecture  near  forty  years 
ago  before  he  was  a  Lion  to  be  shown,  and  when  he  had 
but  few  Readers.  I  heard  his  "Heroes"  which  now  seems 
to  me  one  of  his  best  Books.  He  looked  very  handsome 


322  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  [Mt.  66 

then,  with  his  black  hair,  fine  Eyes,  and  a  sort  of  cruci- 
fied Expression. 

I  know  of  course  (in  Books}  several  of  those  you  name 
in  your  Letter:  Longfellow,  whom  I  may  say  I  love,  and 
so  (I  see)  can't  call  him  Mister:  and  Emerson  whom  I 
admire,  for  I  don't  feel  that  I  know  the  Philosopher  so 
well  as  the.  Poet :  and  Mr.  Lowell's  "Among  my  Books" 
is  among  mine.  I  have  always  much  liked,  I  think 
rather  loved,  O.  W.  Holmes.  I  scarce  know  why  I  could 
never  take  to  that  man  of  true  Genius,  Hawthorne. 
There  is  a  little  of  my  Confession  of  Faith  about  your 
Countrymen,  and  I  should  say  mine,  if  I  were  not  more 
Irish  than  English. 


.  66] 

To  C.  E.  NORTON 

[A    SUGGESTION    FOR    LOWELL;     "DADDY    WORDSWORTH"] 

[WooDBRiDGE,  Feb.  7,  76.] 
My  dear  Sir, — 

I  will  not  look  on  the  Book  you  have  sent  me  as  any 
Return  for  the  Booklet  I  sent  you,  but  as  a  free  and 
kindly  Gift.  I  really  don't  know  that  you  could  have 
sent  me  a  better.  I  have  read  it  with  more  continuous 
attention  and  gratification  than  I  now  usually  feel,  and 
always  (as  Lamb  suggested)  well  disposed  to  say  Grace 
after  reading. 

Seeing  what  Mr.  Lowell  has  done  for  Dante,  Rousseau, 
&c.,  one  does  not  wish  him  to  be  limited  in  his  Subjects: 
but  I  do  wish  he  would  do  for  English  Writers  what  Ste. 
Beuve  has  done  for  French.  Mr.  Lowell  so  far  goes 
along  with  him  as  to  give  so  much  of  each  Writer's 
Life  as  may  illustrate  his  Writings;  he  has  more  humour 
(in  which  alone  I  fancy  S.  B.  somewhat  wanting),  more 
extensive  reading,  I  suppose;  and  a  power  of  metaphor- 
ical Illustration  which  (if  I  may  say  so)  seems  to  me 
to  want  only  a  little  reserve  in  its  use:  as  was  the  case 
perhaps  with  Hazlitt.  But  Mr.  Lowell  is  not  biassed 
by  Hazlitt's — (by  anybody's,  so  far  as  I  see) — party  or 
personal  prejudices;  and  altogether  seems  to  me  the  man 
most  fitted  to  do  this  Good  Work,  where  it  has  not  (as 


t.  66]  EDWAED   FITZGERALD  323 

with  Carlyle's  Johnson)  been  done,  for  good  and  all, 
before.  Of  course,  one  only  wants  the  Great  Men,  in 
their  kind:  Chaucer,  Pope  (Dryden  being  done),  and 
perhaps  some  of  the  "minora  sidera"  clustered  together, 
as  Hazlitt  has  done  them.  Perhaps  all  this  will  come 
forth  in  some  future  Series  even  now  gathering  in  Mr. 
Lowell's  Head.  However  that  may  be,  this  present  Series 
will  make  me  return  to  some  whom  I  have  not  lately 
looked  up.  Dante's  face  I  have  not  seen  these  ten 
years:  only  his  Back  on  my  Book  Shelf.  What  Mr. 
Lowell  says  of  him  recalled  to  me  what  Tennyson  said 
to  me  some  thirty-five  or  forty  years  ago.  We  were 
stopping  before  a  shop  in  Regent  Street  where  were  two 
Figures  of  Dante  and  Goethe.  I  (I  .suppose)  said, 
"What  is  there  in  old  Dante's  Face  that  is  missing  in 
Goethe's?"  And  Tennyson  (whose  Profile  then  had  cer- 
tainly a  remarkable  likeness  to  Dante's)  said:  "The 
Divine."  Then  Milton;  I  don't  think  I've  read  him  these 
forty  ye'ars;  the  whole  Scheme  of  the  Poem,  and  certain 
Parts  of  it,  looming  as  grand  as  anything  in  my  Mem- 
ory; but  I  never  could  read  ten  lines  together  without 
stumbling  at  some  Pedantry  that  tipped  me  at  once  out 
of  Paradise,  or  even  Hell,  into  the  Schoolroom,  worse 
than  either.  Tennyson  again  used  to  say  that  the  two 
grandest  of  all  Similes  were  those  of  the  Ships  hanging 
in  the  Air,  and  "the  Gunpowder  one,"  which  he  used 
slowly  and  grimly  to  enact,  in  the  Days  that  are  no  more. 
He  certainly  then  thought  Milton  the  sublimest  of  all 
the  Gang;  his  Diction  modelled  on  Virgil,  as  perhaps 
Dante's. 

Spenser  I  never  could  get  on  with,  and  (spite  of  Mr. 
Lowell's  good  word)  shall  still  content  myself  with  such 
delightful  Quotations  from  him  as  one  lights  upon  here 
and  there:  the  last  from  Mr.  Lowell. 

Then,  old  "Daddy  Wordsworth,"  as  he  was  sometimes 
called,  I  am  afraid,  from  my  Christening,  he  is  now,  I 
suppose,  passing  under  the  Eclipse  consequent  on  the 
Glory  which  followed  his  obscure  Rise.  I  remember  fifty 
years  ago  at  our  Cambridge,  when  the  Battle  was  fighting 
for  him  by  the  Few  against  the  Many  of  us  who  only 
laughed  at  "Louisa  in  the  Shade"  &c.  His  Brother  was 
then  Master  of  Trinity  College;  like  all  Wordsworths 


324  EDWAED    FITZGERALD  [^Et.  66 

(unless  the  drowned  Sailor)  pompous  and  priggish.  He 
used  to  drawl  out  the  Chapel  responses  so  that  we  called 
him  the  "Meeserable  Sinner"  and  his  brother  the  "Mees- 
erable  Poet."  Poor  fun  enough:  but  I  never  can  forgive 
the  Lakers  all  who  first  despised  and  then  patronized 
"Walter  Scott,"  as  they  loftily  called  him:  and  He, 
dear,  noble,  Fellow,  thought  they  were  quite  justified. 
Well,  your  Emerson  has  done  him  far  more  Justice  than 
his  own  Countryman  Carlyle,  who  won't  allow  him  to  be 
a  Hero  in  any  way,  but  sets  up  such  a  cantankerous 
narrow-minded  Bigqt  as  John  Knox  in  his  stead.  I  did 
go  to  worship  at  Abbotsford,  as  to  Stratford  on  Avon: 
and  saw  that  it  was  good  to  have  so  done.  If  you,  if 
Mr.  Lowell,  have  not  lately  read  it,  pray  read  Lockhart's 
account  of  his  Journey  to  Douglas  Dale  on  (I  think) 
July  18  or  19,  1831.  It  is  a  piece  of  Tragedy,  even  to 
the  muttering  Thunder,  like  the  Lammermuir,  which  does 
not  look  very  small  beside  Peter  Bell  and  Co. 

My  dear  Sir,  this  is  a  desperate  Letter;  and  that  last 
Sentence  will  lead  to  another  dirty  little  Story  about 
my  Daddy :  to  which  you  must  listen  or  I  should  feel 
like  the  Fine  Lady  in  one  of  Vanburgh's  Plays,  "Oh  my 
God,  that  you  won't  listen  to  a  Woman  of  Quality  when 
her  Heart  is  bursting  with  Malice!"  And  perhaps  you 
on  the  other  Side  of  the  Great  Water  may  be  amused 
with  a  little  of  your  old  Granny's  Gossip. 

Well  then:  about  1826,  or  7,  Professor  Airy  (now  our 
Astronomer  Royal)  and  his  brother  William  called  on 
The  Daddy  at  Rydal.  In  the  course  of  Conversation 
Daddy  mentioned  that  sometimes  when  genteel  Parties 
came  to  visit  him,  he  contrived  to  slip  out  of  the  room, 
and  down  the  garden  walk  to  where  "The  Party's"  trav- 
elling Carriage  stood.  This  Carriage  he  would  look  injfco 
to  see  what  Books  they  carried  with  them:  and  he  ob- 
served it  was  generally  "WALTER  SCOTT'S."  It  was  Airy's 
Brother  (a  very  veracious  man,  and  an  Admirer  of 
Wordsworth,  but,  to  be  sure,  more  of  Sir  Walter)  who 
told  me  this.  It  is  this  conceit  that  diminishes  Words- 
worth's stature  among  us,  in  spite  of  the  mountain  Mists 
he  lived  among.  Also,  a  little  stinginess;  not  like  Sir 
Walter  in  that!  I  remember  Hartley  Coleridge  telling 
us  at  Ambleside  how  Professor  Wilson  and  some  one 


.EL  68]  EDWAKD    FITZGEEALD  325 

else  (H.  C.  himself  perhaps)  stole  a  Leg  of  Mutton  from 
Wordsworth's  Larder  for  the  fun  of  the  Thing. 

Here  then  is  a  long  Letter  of  old  world  Gossip  from 
the  old  Home.  I  hope  it  won't  tire  you  out:  it  need 
not,  you  know. 

P.S. — By  way  of  something  better  from  the  old  World, 
I  post  you  Hazlitt's  own  Copy  of  his  English  Poets, 
with  a  few  of  his  marks  for  another  Edition  in  it.  If 
you  like  to  keep  it,  pray  do :  if  you  like  better  to  give 
it  to  Hazlitt's  successor,  Mr.  Lowell,  do  that  from 
yourself. 

[>Et.  68] 

To  J.  R.  LOWELL 
[KEATS  AND  CATULLUS;  SCOTT'S  NOVELS] 

LITTLE  GRANGE,  WOODBRIDGE, 

February  28,   '78. 
M y  dear  Sir, — 

I  ventured  to  send  you  Keats'  Love  Letters  to  Miss 

Brawne!  a  name  in  which  there  is  much,   as  you 

say  of  his,  and  other  names.  ...  Well,  I  thought  you 
might — must — wish  to  see  these  Letters/  and,  may  be, 
not  get  them  so  readily  in  Spain.  So  I  made  bold. 
The  Letters,  I  doubt  not,  are  genuine:  whether  rightly 
or  wrongly  published  I  can't  say:  only  I,  for  one,  am 
glad  of  them.  I  had  just  been  hammering  out  some  notes 
on  Catullus,  by  our  Cambridge  Munro,  Editor  of  Lucre- 
tius, which  you  ought  to  have;  English  Notes  to  both, 
and  the  Prose  Version  of  Lucretius  quite  readable  by 
itself.  Well,  when  Keats  came,  I  scarce  felt  a  change 
from  Catullus :  both  such  fiery  Souls  as  wore  out  their 
Bodies  early;  and  I  can  even  imagine  Keats  writing 
such  filthy  Libels  against  anyone  he  had  a  spite  against, 
even  Armitage  Brown,  had  Keats  lived  two  thousand 
years  ago.  .  .  . 

I  had  a  kind  letter  lately  from  Mr.  Norton:  and  have 
just  posted  him  some  Carlyle  letters  about  that  Squire 
business.  If  you  return  to  America  before  very  long 
you  will  find  them  there.  How  long  is  your  official  Stay 
in  Spain  ?  Limited,  or  Unlimited  ?  By  the  by  of  Carlyle, 
I  heard  from  his  Niece  some  weeks  ago  that  he  had  been 


326  EDWARD   FITZGERALD  [^Et.  68 

poorly:  but,  when  she  wrote,  himself  again:  only  taking 
his  daily  walk  in  a  Carriage,  and  sitting  up  till  past 
Midnight  with  his  Books,  in  spite  of  Warnings  to  Bed. 
As  old  Voltaire  said  to  his  Niece  on  like  occasion, 
"Qu'est.  ce  que  cela  fait  si  je  m'amuse  ?"  I  have  from 
Mudie  a  sensible  dull  Book  of  Letters  from  a  Miss 
Wynn:  with  this  one  good  thing  in  it.  She  has  been 
to  visit  Carlyle  in  1815;  he  has  just  been  to  visit  Bishop 
Thirlwall  in  Wales,  and  duly  attended  Morning  Chapel, 
as  a  Bishop's  Guest  should.  "It  was  very  well  done;  it 
was  like  so  many  Souls  pouring  in  through  all  the  Doors 
to  offer  their  orisons  to  God  who  sent  them  on  Earth. 
We  were  no  longer  Men,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Men's  usages;  and,  after  it  was  all  over,  all  those  Souls 
seemed  to  disperse  again  silent  into  Space.  And  not  till 
we  all  met  afterward  in  the  common  Room,  came  the 
Human  Greetings  and  Civilities."  This  is,  I  think,  a 
little  piece  worth  sending  to  Madrid;  I  am  sure,  the  best 
I  have  to  offer. 

I  have  had  read  to  me  of  nights  some  of  Sir  Walter's 
Scotch  Novels;  Waverley,  Rob,  Midlothian,  now  the  An- 
tiquary :  eking  them  out  as  charily  as  I  may.  For  I  feel, 
in  parting  with  each,  as  parting  with  an  old  Friend  whom 
I  may  never  see  again.  Plenty  of  dull,  and  even  some 
bad,  I  know:  but  parts  so  admirable,  and  the  Whole  so 
delightful.  It  is  wonderful  how  he  sows  the  seed  of  his 
Story  from  the  very  beginning,  and  in  what  seems  barren 
ground:  but  all  comes  up  in  due  course,  and  there  is  the 
whole  beautiful  Story  at  last.  I  think  all  this  Fore-cast 
is  to  be  read  in  Scott's  shrewd,  humorous,  Face:  as  one 
sees  it  in  Chantrey's  Bust;  and  as  he  seems  meditating 
on  his  Edinburgh  Monument.  I  feel  a  wish  to  see  that, 
and  Abbotsford  again:  taking  a  look  at  Dunbar  by  the 
way:  but  I  suppose  I  shall  get  no  further  than  Dunwich. 

Some  one  (not  you)  sent  me  your  Moosehead  Journal : 
but  I  told  Mr.  Norton  I  should  tell  you,  if  I  wrote, 
that  I  did  not  like  the  Style  of  it  at  all;  all  "too  clever 
by  half."  Do  you  not  say  so  yourself  after  Cervantes, 
Scott,  Montaigne,  &c.  ?  I  don't  know  I  ought  to  say 
all  this  to  you:  but  you  can  well  afford  to  be  told  it 
by  one  of  far  more  authority  than  yours  most  sincerely 

E.  FITZGERALD. 


Mt.  69]  EDWAKD   FITZGEEALD 


To  C.  E.  NORTON 
[KEATS'S  "LETTERS";  "RESTORING"  CHURCHES] 

WOODBRIDGE,  April  4,  1878. 
My  dear  Norton,  — 

I  wish  you  would  not  impose  on  yourself  to  write  me 
a  letter;  which  you  say  is  "in  your  head."  You  have 
Literary  work,  and  a  Family  to  enjoy  with  you  what 
spare  time  your  Professional  Studies  leave  you.  Whereas 
I  have  nothing  of  any  sort  that  I  am  engaged  to  do  : 
all  alone  for  months  together:  taking  up  such  Books  as 
I  please  :  and  rather  liking  to  write  Letters  to  ihy  Friends, 
whom  I  now  only  communicate  with  by  such  means. 
And  very  few  of  my  oldest  Friends,  here  in  England, 
care  to  answer  me,  though  I  know  from  no  want  of 
Regard:  but  I  know  that  few  sensible  men,  who  have 
their  own  occupations,  care  to  write  Letters  unless  on 
some  special  purpose;  and  I  now  rarely  get  more  than 
one  yearly  Letter  from  each.  Seeing  which,  indeed,  I 
now  rarely  trouble  them  for  more.  So  pray  be  at  ease 
in  this  respect:  you  have  written  to  me,  as  I  to  you, 
more  than  has  passed  between  myself  and  my  fifty  years 
old  Friends  for  some  years  past.  I  have  had  two  notes 
from  you  quite  lately:  one  to  tell  me  that  Squire  reached 
you;  and  another  that  he  was  on  his  way  back  here.  I 
was  in  no  hurry  for  him,  knowing  that,  if  he  got  safe 
into  your  hands,  he  would  continue  there  as  safe  as  in 
my  own.  I  also  had  your  two  Copies  of  Olympia:  one 
of  which  I  sent  to  Cowell,  who  is  also  always  too  busy 
to  write  to  me,  except  about  twice  a  year,  in  his  Holy- 
days. 

I  am  quite  content  to  take  History  as  you  do,  that 
is,  as  the  Squire-Carlyle  presents  it  to  us;  not  looking 
the  Gift  Horse  in  the  Mouth.  Also,  I  am  sure  you  are 
quite  right  about  the  Keats'  Letters.  I  hope  I  should 
have  revolted  from  the  Book  had  anything  in  it  de- 
tracted from  the  man  :  but  all  seemed  to  me  in  his  favour, 
and  therefore  I  did  not  feel  I  did  wrong  in  having  the 
secret  of  that  heart  opened  to  me.  I  hope  Mr.  Lowell 
will  not  resent  my  thinking  he  might  so  far  sympathize 
with  me.  In  fact,  could  he,  could  you,  resist  taking  up, 


328  EDWAKD    FITZGERALD  [^Et.  69 

and  reading,  the  Letters,  however  doubtful  their  publi- 
cation might  have  seemed  to  your  Conscience? 

Now  I  enclose  you  a  little  work  of  mine  which  I  hope 
does  no  irreverence  to  the  Man  it  talks  of.  It  i-s  meant 
quite  otherwise.  I  often  got  puzzled,  in  reading  Lamb's 
Letters,  about  some  Data  in  his  Life  to  which  the 
Letters  referred:  so  I  drew  up  the  enclosed  for  my 
own  behoof,  and  then  thought  that  others  might  be  glad 
of  it  also.  If  I  set  down  his  Miseries,  and  the  one  Failing 
for  which  those  Miseries  are  such  a  Justification,  I  only 
set  down  what  has  been  long  and  publickly  known,  and 
what,  except  in  a  Noodle's  eyes,  must  enhance  the  dear 
Fellow's  character,  instead  of  lessening  it.  "Saint 
Charles!"  said  Thackeray  to  me  thirty  years  ago,  put- 
ting one  of  C.  L.'s  letters  to  his  forehead;  and  old 
Wordsworth  said  of  him:  "If  there  be  a  Good  Man, 
Charles  Lamb  is  one." 

I  have  been  interested  in  the  Memoir  and  Letters  of 
C.  Sumner:  a  thoroughly  sincere,  able,  and  (I  should 
think)  affectionate  man  to  a  few;  without  humour,  I 
suppose,  or  much  artistic  Feeling.  You  might  like  to 
look  over  a  slight,  and  probably  partial,  Memoir  of  A. 
de  Musset,  by'  his  Brother,  who  (whether  well  or  ill) 
leaves  out  the  Absinthe,  which  is  generally  supposed  to 
have  shortened  the  Life  of  that  man  of  Genius.  Think 
of  Clarissa  being  one  of  his  favorite  Books ;  he  could 
not  endure  the  modern  Parisian  Romance.  It  reminded 
me  of  our  Tennyson  (who  has  some  likeness,  "mutatis 
mutandis"  of  French  Morals,  Absinthe,  &c.,  to  the  French- 
man)— of  his  once  saying  to  me  of  Clarissa,  "I  love  those 
large,  still,  Books." 

I  parted  from  Doudan  with  regret;  that  is,  from  two 
volumes  of  him ;  all  I  had :  but  I  think  I  see  four  quoted. 
That  is  pretty,  his  writing  to  his  Brother,  who  is  dwell- 
ing (1870-1)  in  some  fortified  Town,  on  whose  ramparts, 
now  mounted  with  cannon,  "I  used  to  gather  Violets." 
And  I  cannot  forget  what  he  says  to  a  Friend  at  that 
crisis,  "Engage  in  some  long  course  of  Study  to  drown 
Trouble  in":  and  he  quotes  Ste.  Beuve  saying,  one  long 
Summer  Day  in  the  Country,  "Lisons  tout  Madame  de 
Sevigne."  You  may  have  to  advise  me  to  some  such 


. 
.Et.  72]  EDWAED   FITZGEKALD  329 

course  before  long.     I  will  avoid  speaking,  or,  so  far  as 
I  can,  thinking,  of  what  I  cannot  prevent,  or  alter. 

You  say  you  like  my  Letters:  which  I  say  is  liking 
what  comes,  from  this  old  Country,  more  yours  than 
mine.  I  have  heard  that  some  of  your  People  would 
even  secure  a  Brick,  or  Stone,  from  some  old  Church 
here  to  imbed  in  some  new  Church  a-building  over  the 
Atlantic.  Plenty  of  such  materials  might  be  had,  for 
this  foolish  People  are  restoring,  and  rebuilding,  old  Vil- 
lage Churches  that  have  grown  together  in  their  Fields 
for  Centuries.  Only  yesterday  I  wrote  to  decline  helping 
such  a  work  on  a  poor  little  Church  I  remember  these 
sixty  years.  Well,  you  like  my  Letters;  I  think  there 
is  too  much  of  this  one;  but  I  will  end,  as  I  believe  I 
began,  in  praying  you  not  to  be  at  any  trouble  in  an- 
swering it,  or  any  other,  >from 

Yours  sincerely, 

E.  F.  G. 

Pray  read  the  Scene  at  Mrs.  McCandlish's  Inn  when 
Colonel  Mannering  returns  from  India  to  Ellangowan. 
It  is  Shakespeare. 

WOODBRIDGE,  April  16,  1878. 

Only  a  word;  to  say  that  yesterday  came  Squire- 
Carlyle  from  you :  and  a  kind  long  letter  from  Mr. 
Lowell:  and — and  the  first  Nightingale,  who  sang  in 
my  Garden  the  same  song  as  in  Shakespeare's  days:  and, 
before  the  Day  had  closed,  Dandie  Dinmont  came  into 
my  room  on  his  visit  to  young  Bertram  in  Portanferry 
Gaol-house. 


.  72] 

To  W.  F.  POLLOCK 
[JAMES  SPEEDING] 

[1881.] 
My  dear  Pollock, — 

Thank  you  for  your  kind  Letter;  which  I  forwarded, 
with  its  enclosure  to  Thompson,  as  you  desired. 

If  Spedding's  Letters,  or  parts  of  them,  would  not  suit 
the  Public,  they  would  surely  be  a  very  welcome  treasure 


330  EDWARD    FITZGERALD  [Mt.  72 

to  his  Friends.  Two  or  three  pages  of  Biography  would 
be  enough  to  introduce  them  to  those  who  knew  him 
less  long  and  less  intimately  than  ourselves:  and  all  who 
read  would  be  the  better,  and  the  happier,  for  reading 
them. 

I  am  surprised  to  find  how  much  I  dwell  upon  the 
thought  of  him,  considering  that  I  had  not  refreshed  my 
Memory  with  the  sight  or  sound  of  him  for  more  than 
twenty  years.  But  all  the  past  (before  that)  comes  upon 
me:  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  him  while  I  wake;  and 
when  I  do  wake  from  Sleep,  I  have  a  feeling  of  some- 
thing lost,  as  in  a  dream,  and -it  is  J.  S. 

I  suppose  that  Carlyle  amused  himself,  after  just 
losing  his  Wife,  with  the  Records  he  has  left :  what  he 
says  of  her  seems  a  sort  of  penitential  glorification :  what 
of  others,  just  enough  in  general:  but  in  neither  case 
to  be  made  public,  and  so  immediately  after  his  Decease. 
...  I  keep  wondering  what  J.  S.  would  have  said  on 
the  matter:  but  I  cannot  ask  him  now,  as  I  might  have 
done  a  month  ago.  .  .  . 

Dear  old  Jem!  His  loss  makes  one's  Life  more  dreary, 
and  "en  revanche"  the  end  of  it  less  regretful. 

\_Mt.  72] 

To  H.   SCHUTZ  WILSON 
[PERSIAN  POETS] 

[1  March,  1882.] 
My  dear  Sir, — 

I  must  thank  you  sincerely  for  your  thoughts  about 
Salaman,  in  which  I  recognize  a  good  will  toward  the 
Translator,  as  well  as  liking  for  his  work. 

Of  course  your  praise  could  not  but  help  that  on: 
but  I  scarce  think  that  it  is  of  a  kind  to  profit  so  far 
by  any  review  as  to  make  it  worth  the  expense  of  Time 
and  Talent  you  might  bestow  upon  it.  In  Omar's  case 
it  was  different:  he  sang,  in  an  acceptable  way  it 
seems,  of  what  all  men  feel  in  their  hearts,  but  had  not 
had  exprest  in  verse  before:  Jami  tells  of  what  every- 
body knows,  under  cover  of  a  not  very  skilful  Allegory. 
I  have  undoubtedly  improved  the  whole  by  boiling  it  down 
to  about  a  Quarter  of  its  original  size;  and  there  are 


JEt.  72]  EDWAKD   EITZGEKALD  331 

many  pretty  things  in  it,  though  the  blank  Verse  is  too 
Miltonic  for  Oriental  style. 

All  this  considered,  why  did  I  ever  meddle  with  it? 
Why,  it  was  the  first  Persian  Poem  I  read,  with  my 
friend  Edward  Cowell,  near  on  forty  years  ago:  and  I 
was  so  well  pleased  with  it  then  (and  now  think  it  al- 
most the  best  of  the  Persian  Poems  I  have  read  or  heard 
about),  that  I  published  my  Version  of  it  in  1856  (I 
think)  with  Parker  of  the  Strand.  When  Parker  dis- 
appeared, my  unsold  copies,  many  more  than  of  the  sold, 
were  returned  to  me ;  some  of  which,  if  not  all,"  I  gave  to 
little  Quaritch,  who,  I  believe,  trumpeted  them  off  to 
some  little  profit:  and  I  thought  no  more  of  them. 

But  some  six  or  seven  years  ago  that  Sheikh  of  mine, 
Edward  Cowell,  who  liked  the  Version  better  than  any  one 
else,  wished  it  to  be  reprinted.  So  I  took  it  in  hand, 
boiled  it  down  to  three-fourths  of  what  it  originally  was, 
and  (as  you  say)  clapt  it  on  the  back  of  Omar,  where 
I  still  believed  it  would  hang  somewhat  of  a  dead  weight; 
but  that  was  Quaritch's  look-out,  not  mine.  I  have  never 
heard  of  any  notice  taken  of  it,  but  just  now  from  you: 
and  I  believe  that,  say  what  you  would,  people  would 
rather  have  the  old  Sinner  alone.  Therefore  it  is  that 
I  write  all  this  to  you.  I  doubt  not  that  any  of  yov.r 
Editors  would  accept  an  Article  from  you  on  the  Sub- 
ject, but  I  believe  also  they  would  much  prefer  one  on 
many  another  Subject:  and  so  probably  with  the  Public 
whom  you  write  for. 

Thus  "liberavi  animam  meam"  for  your  behoof,  as  I 
am  rightly  bound  to  do  in  return  for  your  Goodwill 
to  me. 

As  to  the  publication  of  my  name,  I  believe  I  could 
well  dispense  with  it;  were  it  other  and  better  than 
it  is.  But  I  have  some  unpleasant  associations  with  it: 
not  the  least  of  them  being  that  it  was  borne,  Christian 
and  Surname,  by  a  man  who  left  College  just  whed  I 
went  there.  .  .  .  What  has  become  of  him  I  know  not: 
but  he,  among  other  causes,  has  made  me  dislike  my 
name,  and  made  me  sign  myself  (half  in  fun,  of  course,) 
to  my  friends,  as  now  I  do  to  you,  sincerely  yours, 

(THE  LAIRD  OF)  LITTLEGRANGE 
where  I  date  from. 


332  EDWAKD    FITZGERALD  [^Et.  74 

[^Et.  74] 

To  C.  E.  NORTON 
[CARLYLE ;   BALLADS] 

WOODBRIDGE,  May  12,  '83. 
My  dear  Norton, — 

Your  Emerson-Carlyle  of  course  interested  me  very 
much,  as  I  believe  a  large  public  also.  I  had  most  to 
learn  of  Emerson,  and  that  all  good:  but  Carlyle  came 
out  in  somewhat  of  a  new  light  to  me  also.  Now  we 
have  him  in  his  Jane's  letters,  as  we  had  seen  some- 
thing of  him  before  in  the  Reminiscences:  but  a  yet 
more  tragic  story;  so  tragic  that  I  know  not  if  it  ought 
not  to  have  been  withheld  from  the  Public:  assuredly, 
it  seems  to  me,  ought  to  have  been  but  half  of  the 
whole  it  now  is.  But  I  do  not  the  less  recognize  Carlyle 
for  more  admirable  than  before — if  for  no  other  reason 
than  his  thus  furnishing  the  world  with  weapons  against 
himself  which  the  World  in  general  is  glad  to  turn 
against  him.  .  .  . 

And,  by  way  of  finishing  what  I  have  to  say  on  Car- 
lyle for  the  present,  I  will  tell  you  that  I  had  to  go  up 
to  our  huge,  hideous,  London  a  week  ago,  on  disagree- 
able business:  which  Business,  however,  I  got  over  in 
time  for  me  to  run  to  Chelsea  before  I  returned  home  at 
Evening.  I  wanted  to  see  the  Statue  on  the  Chelsea 
Embankment  which  I  had  not  yet  seen:  and  the  old 
No.  5  of  Cheyne  Row,  which  I  had  not  seen  for  five 
and  twenty  years.  The  Statue  I  thought  very  good, 
though  looking  somewhat  small  and  ill  set-off  by  its 
dingy  surroundings.  And  No.  5  (now  24),  which  had 
cost  her  so  much  of  her  life,  one  may  say,  to  make  habi- 
table for  him,  now  all  neglected,  unswept,  ungarnished, 
uninhabited 


TO  LET. 


I  cannot  get  it  out  of  my  head,  the  tarnished  Scene  of 
the  Tragedy  (one  must  call  it)  there  enacted. 

Well,  I  was  glad  to  get  away  from  it,  and  the  London 
of  which  it  was  a  small  part,  and  get  down  here  to  my 


1E&  46]       ALFKED   LORD    TENNYSON  333 

own  dull  home,  and  by  no  means  sorry  not  to  be  a 
Genius  at  such  a  Cost.  "Parlons  d'autres  choses." 

I  got  our  Woodbridge  Bookseller  to  enquire  for  your 
Mr.  Child's  Ballad-book;  but  could  only  hear,  and  in- 
deed be  shown  a  specimen,  of  a  large  Quarto  Edition, 
de  luxe  I  believe,  and  would  not  meddle  with  that.  I  do 
not  love  any  unwieldy  Book,  even  a  Dictionary;  and  I 
believe  that  I  am  contented  enough  with  such  Knowl- 
edge as  I  have  of  the  old  Ballads  in  many  a  handy  Edi- 
tion. Not  but  I  admire  Mr.  Child  for  such  an  under- 
taking as  his;  but  I  think  his  Book  will  be  more  for 
Great  Libraries,  Public  or  Private,  than  for  my  scanty 
Shelves  at  my  age  of  seventy-five.  I  have  already  given 
away  to  Friends  all  that  I  had  of  any  rarity  or  value, 
especially  if  over  octavo. 

By  the  way  there  was  one  good  observation,  I  think, 
in  Mrs.  Oliphant's  superficial,  or  hasty,  History  of  Eng- 
lish 18th  Century  Literature,  viz.,  that  when  the  Beatties, 
Blacks,  and  other  recognized  Poets  of  the  Day  were  all 
writing  in  a  "classical"  way,  and  tried  to  persuade  Burns 
to  do  the  like,  it  was  certain  Old  Ladies  who  wrote  so 
many  of  the  Ballads,  which,  many  of  them,  have  passed 
as  ancient,  "Sir  Patrick  Spence"  for  one,  I  think. 

Our,  Spring  flowers  have  been  almost  all  spoilt  by  Win- 
ter weather,  and  the  Trees  before  my  window  only  just 
now  beginning  to 

"Stand  in  a  mist  of  Green," 

as  Tennyson  sings.  Let  us  hope  their  Verdure,  late  ar- 
rayed, will  last  the  longer.  I  continue  pretty  well,  with 
occasional  reminders  from  Bronchitis,  who  is  my  estab- 
lished Brownie. 


46]      ALFRED  LORD  TENNYSON 

1809-1892 

To  JOHN  FORSTER 

["THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE"] 

[1855] 
My  dear  Forster, 

In  the  first  place  thanks  for  your  critique,  which  seems 
to  me  good  arid  judicious.     Many  thanks,  my  wife  will 


334  ALFKED   LOKD    TENNYSON        [^Et.  46 

write  to  you  about  it;  but  what  I  am  writing  to  you 
now  about  is  a  matter  which  interests  me  very  much. 
My  friend  Chapman  of  3,  Stone  Buildings,  Lincoln's 
Inn,  writes  to  me  thus : — "An  acquaintance  of  mine  in 
the  department  of  the  S.  P.  G.  as  he  calls  it  (Society 
for  the  Propagation  of  the  Gospel)  was  saying  how  a 
chaplain  in  the  Crimea  sent  by  the  Society  writes  to  the 
Society — (neither  he  nor  the  Society  being  suspected  of 
any  Tennysonian  prejudices) — 'The  greatest  service  you 
can  do  just  now  is  to  send  out -on  printed  slips  Mr.  A.  T.'s 
"Charge  at  Balaclava."  It  is  the  greatest  favourite  of 
the  soldiers — half  are  singing  it,  and  all  want  to  have  it 
in  black  and  white,  so  as  to  read  what  has  so  taken 
them.' " 

Now,  my  dear  Forster,  you  see  I  cannot  possibly  be 
deaf  to  such  an  appeal.  I  wish  to  send  out  about  1000 
slips,  and  I  don't  at  all  want  the  S.  P.  G.  or  any  one  to 
send  out  the  version  last  printed:  it  would,  I  believe, 
quite  disappoint  the  soldiers.  Don't  you  live  quite  close 
to  the  S.  P.  G.  ?  Could  you  not  send  Henry  over  to  say 
that  I  am  sending  over  the  soldiers'  version  of  my  ballad, 
and  beg  them  not  to  stir  in  the  matter?  The  soldiers  are 
the  best  critics  in  what  pleases  them.  I  send  you  a  copy 
which  "retains  the  "Light  Brigade,"  and  the  "blunder'd" ; 
and  I  declare  it  is  the  best  of  the  two,  and  that  the  criti- 
cism of  two  or  three  London  friends  (not  yours)  induced 
me  to  spoil  it.  For  Heaven's  sake  get  this  copy  fairly 
printed  at  once,  and  sent  out.  I  have  sent  it  by  this  post 
likewise  to  Moxon,  but  you  are  closer  to  your  printer. 
Concoct  with  him  how  it  is  all  to  be  managed:  I  am  so 
sorry  that  I  am  not  in  town  to  have  done  it  at  once.  I 
have  written  a  little  note  to  the  soldiers  which  need  not 
be  sent — just  as  you  like.  It  might  be  merely  printed 
"From  A.  Tennyson."  Please  see  to  all  this :  and  see 
that  there  are  no  mistakes;  and  I  will  be  bound  to  you 
for  evermore,  and  more  than  ever  yours  in  great  haste, 

A.  TENNYSON. 

P.8.  I  am  convinced  now  after  writing  it  out  that 
this  is  the  best  version. 


50]        ALFRED   LORD    TENNYSON  335 

[JEt.  50] 

To  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 
[THANKS  FOR  APPRECIATION] 

FARRINGFORD, 

[1859] 
My  dear  Thackeray, 

Should  I  not  have  answered  you  ere  this  6th  of  No^- 
vember?  surely:  what  excuse?  none  that  I  know  of:  ex- 
cept indeed,  that  perhaps  your  very  generosity  and 
boundlessness  of  approval  made  me  in  a  measure  shame- 
faced. I  could  scarcely  accept  it,  being,  I  fancy,  a  modest 
man,  and  always  more  or  less  doubtful  of  my  own  efforts 
in  any  line.  But  I  may  tell  you  that  your  little  note 
gave  me  more  pleasure  than  all  the  journals  and  month- 
lies and  quarterlies  which  have  come  across  me :  not  so 
much  from  your  being  the  Great  Novelist,  I  hope,  as 
from  your  being  my  good  old  friend,  or  perhaps  from 
your  being  both  of  these  in  one.  Well,  let  it  be.  I  have 
been  ransacking  all  sorts  of  old  albums  and  scrap  books 
but  cannot  find  anything  worthy  sending  you.  Unfortu- 
nately before  your  letter  arrived  I  had  agreed  to  give 
Macmillan  the  only  available  poem  I  had  by  me  ("Sea 
Dreams").  I  don't  think  he  would  have  got  it  (for  I 
dislike  publishing  in  magazines)  except  that  he  had  come 
to  visit  me  in  my  Island,  and  was  sitting  and  blowing 
his  weed  vis-a-vis.  I  am  sorry  that  you  have  engaged 
for  any  quantity  of  money  to  let  your  brains  be  sucked 
periodically  by  Smith,  Elder  &  Co. :  not  that  I  don't  like 
Smith,  who  seems  from  the  very  little  I  have  seen  of  him, 
liberal  and  kindly,  but  that  so  great  an  artist  as  you  are 
should  go  to  work  after  this  fashion.  Whenever  you 
feel  your  brains  as  the  "remainder  biscuit,"  or  indeed 
whenever  you  will,  come  over  to  me  and  take  a  blow  on 
these  downs  where  the  air  as  Keats  said  is  "worth  six- 
pence a  pint,"  and  bring  your  girls  too. 

Yours  always, 
A.  TENNYSON. 


[>Et.  52]    OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

1809-1894 
To  JAMES  T.  FIELDS 

[AN   ERROR  OF  ONE   WEEK] 

296  BEACON  STREET,  February  11,  1862. 
My  dear  Mr.  Fields, — 

On  Friday  evening  last  I  white-cravated  myself,  took 
a  carriage,  and  found  myself  at  your  door  at  eight  of 
the  clock  P.M. 

A  cautious  female  responded  to  my  ring,  and  opened 
the  chained  portal  about  as  far  as  a  clam  opens  his  shell 
to  see  what  is  going  on  in  Cambridge  Street,  where  he 
is  waiting  for  a  customer. 

Her  first  glance  impressed  her  with  the  conviction  that 
I  was  a  burglar.  The  mild  address  with  which  I  accosted 
her  removed  that  impression,  and  I  rose  in  the  moral 
scale  to  the  comparatively  elevated  position  of  what  the 
unfeeling  world  calls  a  "sneak-thief." 

By  dint,  however,  of  soft  words,  and  that  look  of  in- 
genuous simplicity  by  which  I  am  so  well  known  to  you 
and  all  my  friends,  I  coaxed  her  into  the  belief  that  I 
was  nothing  worse  than  a  rejected  contributor,  an  auto- 
graph collector,  an  author  with  a  volume  of  poems  to  dis- 
pose of,  or  other  disagreeable  but  not  dangerous  char- 
acter. 

She  unfastened  the  chain,  and  I  stood  before  her. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm 
And  told 

me  how  you  and  Mrs.  F.  had  gone  to  New  York,  and 
how  she  knew  nothing  of  any  literary  debauch  that  was 
to  come  off  under  your  roof,  but  would  go  and  call  an- 
other unprotected  female  who  knew  the  past,  present, 
and  future,  and  could  tell  me  why  this  was  thus,  that  I 
had  been  lured  from  my  fireside  by  the  ignis  fatuus  of 
a  deceptive  invitation. 

It  was  my  turn  to  be  afraid,  alone  in  the  house  with 
two  of  the  stronger  sex;  and  I  retired. 

On  reaching  home,  I  read  my  note  and  found  it  was 
Friday  the  16th,  not  the  9th,  I  was  invited  for.  .  .  . 

336 


Mi.  60]       OLIVEK   WENDELL   HOLMES  337 

Dear  Mr.  Fields,  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  come  to  your 
home  on  Friday  evening,  the  16th  February,  at  eight 
o'clock,  to  meet  yourself  and  Mrs.  Fields,  and  hear  Mr. 
James  read  his  paper  on  Emerson. 


.  60] 

To  JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY 
[CHARLES  FECHTER;  A  "NEW  PRESIDENT"] 

BOSTON,  April  3,  1870. 
My  dear  Motley, — 

I  feel  as  if  I  must  have  something  or  other  to  say  that 
will  interest  you,  but  what  it  is,  if  there  is  anything,  I 
can  hardly  guess  as  yet.  L'appetit  vient  en  mangeant, 
I  have  no  doubt,  and  if  I  can  only  tell  you  that  I  am 
alive  and  have  not  forgotten  you,  I  shall  perhaps  feel 
better  for  saying  it.  I  have  been  rather  miserable  this 
winter  by  reason  of  asthmatic  tendencies,  which,  with- 
out preventing  me  from  doing  my  work,  keep  me  more 
or  less,  uncomfortable,  and  tell  me  to  decline  my  invita- 
tions for  a  while.  I  have  been  well  enough,  however,  of 
late,  and  went  to  a  dinner-party  at  Mrs.  's  yester- 
day, and  a  kind  of  soiree  she  had  after  it.  This  good 
lady  (who  is  a  distant  relation  of  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter)  had 
bagged  Mr.  Fechter,  the  player,  who  has  been  turning 
the  heads  of  the  Boston  women  and  girls  with  his  Ham- 
lets and  Claude  Melnottes.  A  pleasant,  intelligent  man, 
— you  may  have  met  him  or  at  any  rate  seen  him, — but 
Boston  furores  are  funny.  The  place  is  just  of  the  right 
size  for  aesthetic  endemics,  and  they  spare  neither  age 
nor  sex — among  the  women,  that  is,  for  we  have  man- 
women  and  woman-women  here,  you  know.  It  reminds 
me  of  the  time  we  had  when  Jefferson  was  here,  but 
Fechter  is  feted  off  the  stage  as  much  as  he  is  applauded 
on  it.  I  have  only  seen  him  in  Hamlet,  in  which  he  in- 
terested rather  than  overwhelmed  me.  But  his  talk  about 
Rachel  and  the  rest  with  whom  he  has  played  so  much 
was  mighty  pleasant. 

Another  sensation  in  a  somewhat  different  sphere  is 
our  new  Harvard  College  President.  King  Log  has  made 
room  for  King  Stork.  Mr.  Eliot  makes  the  Corporation 


338  OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES        &t.  60 


meet  twice  a  month  instead  of  once.  He  comes  to  the 
meeting  of  every  Faculty,  ours  among  the  rest,  and  keeps 
us  up  to  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock  at  night  discussing 
new  arrangements.  He  shows  an  extraordinary  knowl- 
edge of  all  that  relates  to  every  department  of  the  Uni- 
versity, and  presides  with  an  aplomb,  a  quiet,  imper- 
turbable, serious  good-humor,  that  it  is  impossible  not 
to  admire.  We  are,  some  of  us,  disposed  to  think  that 
he  is  a  little  too  much  in  a  hurry  with  some  of  his  inno- 
vations, and  take  care  to  let  the  Corporation  know  it. 
I  saw  three  of  them  the  other  day  and  found  that  they 
were  on  their  guard,  as  they  all  quoted  that  valuable 
precept,  festina  lente,  as  applicable  in  the  premises.  I 
cannot  help  being  amused  at  some  of  the  scenes  we  have 
in  our  Medical  Faculty,  —  this  cool,  grave  young  man 
proposing  in  the  calmest  way  to  turn  everything  topsy- 
turvy, taking  the  reins  into  his  hands  and  driving  as 
if  he  were  the  first  man  that  ever  sat  on  the  box.  I  say 
amused,  because  I  do  not  really  care  much  about  most 
of  the  changes  he  proposes,  and  I  look  on  a  little  as  I 
would  at  a  rather  serious  comedy. 

"How  is  it?  I  should  like  to  ask,"  said  one  of  our 
number  the  other  evening,  "that  this  Faculty  has  gone 
on  for  eighty  years,  managing  its  own  affairs  and  doing 
it  well,  —  for  the  Medical  School  is  the  most  flourishing 
department  connected  with  the  college,  —  how  is  it  that 
we  have  been  going  on  so  well  in  the  same  orderly  path 
for  eighty  years,  and  now  within  three  or  four  months 
it  is  proposed  to  change  all  our  modes  of  carrying  on 
the  school  —  it  seems  very  extraordinary,  and  I  should 
like  to  know  how  it  happens." 

"I  can  answer  Dr.  --  's  question  very  easily,"  said  the 
bland,  grave  young  man:  "there  is  a  new  President." 

The  tranquil  assurance  of  this  answer  had  an  effect 
such  as  I  hardly  ever  knew  produced  by  the  most  elo- 
quent sentences  I  ever  heard  uttered.  Eliot  has  a  deep, 
almost  melancholy  sounding  voice  —  with  a  little  of  that 
character  that  people's  voices  have  when  there  is  some- 
body lying  dead  in  the  house,  but  a  placid  smile  on  his 
face  that  looks  as  if  it  might  mean  a  deal  of  determina- 
tion, perhaps  of  obstinacy.  I  have  great  hopes  from  his 
energy  and  devotion  to  his  business,  which  he  studies 


&t.  60]       OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES  339 

as  I  suppose  no  President  ever  did  before;  but  I  think 
the  Corporation  and  Overseers  will  have  to  hold  him 
in  a  little,  or  he  will  want  to  do  too  many  things  at  once. 

I  went  to  the  Club  last  Saturday,  and  met  some  of 
the  friends  you  always  like  to  hear  of.  I  sat  by  the 
side  of  Emerson,  who  always  charms  me  with  his  de- 
licious voice,  his  fine  sense  and  wit,  and  the  delicate  way 
he  steps  about  among  the  words  of  his  vocabulary, — if 
you  have  seen  a  cat  picking  her  footsteps  in  wet  weather, 
you  have  seen  the  picture  of  Emerson's  exquisite  intelli- 
gence, feeling  for  its  phrase  or  epithet, — sometimes  I 
think  of  an  ant-eater  singling  out  his  insects,  as  I  see 
him  looking  about  and  at  last  seizing  his  noun  or  ad- 
jective,— the  best,  the  only  one  which  would  serve  the 
need  of  his  thought. 

Longfellow  was  there, — not  in  good  spirits  I  thought 
by  his  looks.  On  talking  with  him  I  found  it  was  so. 
He  feels  the  tameness  and  want  of  interest  of  the  life 
he  is  leading  after  the  excitement  of  his  European  ex- 
perience, and  makes  no  secret  of  it.  I  think  the  work 
of  translating  Dante  kept  him  easy,  and  that  he  is  rest- 
less now  for  want  of  a  task.  ...  I  hope  he  will  find 
some  pleasant  literary  labor  for  his  later  years, — for  his 
graceful  and  lovely  nature  can  hardly  find  expression 
in  any  form  without  giving  pleasure  to  others,  and  for 
him  to  be  idle  is,  I  fear,  to  be  the  prey  of  sad  memories. 

Lowell  was  not  at  the  Club.  I  saw  him  at  the  Febru- 
ary one  seeming  well  and  in  good  spirits. 

Agassiz,  you  know,  has  been  in  a  condition  to  cause 
very  grave  fears.  I  am  happy  to  say  that  he  is  much 
improved  of  late.  .  .  . 

I  have  left  no  room  to  talk  of  your  affairs,  to  sympa- 
thize with  your  spoliation, — to  say  how  grand  we  all  felt 
when  we  read  of  your  famous  reception  of  the  great  folks 
the  other  day,  nor  to  tell  you  how  we  miss  you  and  your 
family  here  in  your  own  little  city,  which  you  must  not 
forget  because  it  looks  so  small  in  the  distance.  You 
like  a  letter  from  me  every  few  months,  I  am  sure, 
though  there  is  not  a  great  deal  in  it.  You  know  you 
need  not  answer. 


340  OLIVEE   WENDELL   HOLMES       [Mt.  66 

.  66] 


To  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

["ELDERS"  WITH  PITH] 
296  BEACON  STREET,  September  28,  1875. 
My  dear  James,  — 

Two  faculty  meetings  on  Thursday  of  this  week  (Den- 
tal and  Medical)  which  I  cannot  miss,  and  my  lectures 
on  the  following  Thursdays,  keep  me  in  Boston  in  de- 
spite of  all  temptations.  I  never  go  to  any  shows  nowa- 
days —  formerly  they  were  outre  chose  —  but  if  I  did  go 
to  any,  cattle-shows  would  be  my  favorite  resort  —  espe- 
cially in  Spain,  where  I  understand  they  have  very  fine 
ones.  At  our  native  exhibitions  I  have  a  wonderful  liking 
for  looking  at  prize  pumpkins  and  squashes  —  great  fel- 
lows marked  100  lb.,  120  lb.,  127  lb.!  and  so  on—  the  ri- 
valry excites  me  like  a  horse-race.  As  for  fatted  calves 
and  the  like,  I  am  as  eager  for  them  as  the  prodigal  son. 
The  Great  Cheese  commonly  shown  comes  in  for  a  share 
of  my  admiration.  The  sampler  worked  by  a  little  girl 
aged  five  years  and  three  months,  and  the  patchwork 
quilt  wrought  by  the  old  lady  of  eighty-seven  years,  four 
months,  and  six  days,  receive  alike  my  respectful  atten- 
tion. I  lift  the  dasher  of  the  new  patent  churn  with  the 
proud  feeling  that  I,  too,  am  a  contriver  and  see  my  un- 
patented  gimcrack  in  every  window.  And  the  plough- 
ing-match,  too  —  not  quite  so  actively  exciting  as  Epsom 
(I  don't  mean  the  salts,  of  course,  but  the  race),  but  still 
equal  to  bringing  on  a  mild  glow  of  excitement.  Yes,  I 
miss  a  good  deal  in  not  going  to  the  cattle-shows. 

But  we  missed  you  sadly,  my  dear  fellow,  on  Saturday. 
Good  and  great  men  are  getting  scarce,  my  James,  and 
you  must  not  be  trifling  in  this  way  with  your  gouts  and 
gastralgias. 

Do  thank  your  son-in-law  (I  met  him  the  other  day 
and  he  showed  me  a  photograph  of  one  of  his  children, 
which  was  a  credit  to  all  concerned)  —  for  complimenting 
me  with  a  wish  for  my  presence. 

I  have  been  having  a  very  pleasant  vacation  at  Beverly, 
Nahant,  and  Mattapoisett,  and  am  beginning  my  seven 
months'  lecture  course  feeling  quite  juvenile  for  an  el- 


Mt.  37]         WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY  341 

derly  gentleman — however,  the  elders  always  had  a  good 
deal  of  real  pith  in  them,  I  remember,  in  my  boyish  days ! 
and  I  suppose  it  is  so  now. 


[Ml.  37] 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE    THACKEKAY 

1811-1863 

To  MRS.  BROOKFIELD 
["PAYNE"] 

[1848.] 
My  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield: 

Now  that  it  is  over  and  irremediable  I  am  thinking 
with  a  sort  of  horror  of  a  bad  joke  in  the  last  number  of 
Vanity  Fair,  which  may  perhaps  annoy  somebody  whom 
I  wouldn't  wish  to  displease.  Amelia  is  represented  as 
having  a  lady's  maid,  and  the  lady's  maid's  name  is 
Payne.  I  laughed  when  I  wrote  it,  and  thought  that 
it  was  good  fun,  but  now,  who  knows  whether  you  and 
Payne  and  everybody  won't  be  angry,  and  in  fine,  I  am 
in  a  great  tremor.  The  only  way  will  be,  for  you  I  fear 
to  change  Payne's  name  to  her  Christian  one.  Pray 
don't  be  angry  if  you  are,  and  forgive  me  if  I  have  of- 
fended. You  know  you  are  only  a  piece  of  Amelia,  my 
mother  is  another  half,  my  poor  little  wife  —  y  est  pour 
beaucoup. 

and  I  am 

Yours  most  sincerely, 
W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

I  hope  you  will  write  to  say  that  you  forgive  me. 


.  37] 

To  THE  SAME 

[AT   WORK   ON    "PENDENNIS"] 

From  the  old  shop,  21. 

[1849] 

Is  it  pouring  with  rain  at  Park  Lodge,  and  the  most 
dismal,  wretched,  .cat  and  dog  day  ever  seen?  O!  it's 
gloomy  at  13  Young  Street!  I  have  been  labouring  all 
day  —  drawing  that  is,  and  doing  my  plates,  till  my  &s 


342  WILLIAM   M.    THACKERAY         [^Et.  37 

are  ready  to  drop  off  for  weariness.  But  they  must  not 
stop  for  yet  a  little  while,  and  until  I  have  said  how  do 
you  do  to  my  dear  lady  and  the  young  folks  at  South- 
ampton. I  hardly  had  time  to  know  I  was  gone,  and 
that  happy  fortnight  was  over,  till  this  morning.  At 

the  train,   whom  do   you  think  I  found?     Miss   G 

who  says  she  is  Blanche  Amory,  and  I  think  she  is 
Blanche  Amory;  amiable  at  times,  amusing,  clever  and 
depraved.  We  talked  and  persiflated  all  the  way  to  Lon- 
don, and  the  idea  of  her  will  help  me  to  a  good  chapter, 
in  which  I  will  make  Pendennis  and  Blanche  play  at  be- 
ing "in  love,  such  a  wicked  false  humbugging  London 
love,  as  two  blase  London  people  might  act,  and  half  de- 
ceive themselves  that  they  were  in  earnest.  That  will  com- 
plete the  cycle  of  Mr.  Pen's  worldly  experiences,  and  then 
we  will  make,  or  try  and  make,  a  good  man  of  him.  0 ! 
me,  we  are  wicked  worldlings  most  of  us,  may  God  better 
us  and  cleanse  us! 

I  wonder  whether  ever  again,  I  shall  have  such  a  happy 
peaceful  fortnight  as  that  last!  How  sunshiny  the  land- 
scape remains  in  my  mind,  I  hope  for  always;  and  the 
smiles  of  dear  children.  ...  I  can  hardly  see  as  I 
write  for  the  eye-water,  but  it  isn't  with  grief,  but  for 
the  natural  pathos  of  the  thing.  How  happy  your  dear 
regard  makes  me,  how  it  takes  off  the  solitude  and  eases  it ; 
may  it  continue,  pray  God,  till  your  head  is  white  as 
mine,  and  our  children  have  children  of  their  own.  In- 
stead of  being  unhappy  because  that  delightful  holiday 
is  over  or  all  but  over,  I  intend  that  the  thoughts  of  it 
should  serve  to  make  me  only  the  more  cheerful  and 
help  me,  please  God,  to  do  my  duty  better.  All  such 
pleasures  ought  to  brace  and  strengthen  one  against 
work  days,  and  lo,  here  they  are.  I  hope  you  will  be 
immensely  punctual  at  breakfast  and  dinner,  and  do  all 
your  business  of  life  with  cheerfulness  and  briskness, 
after  the  example  of  holy  Philip  Neri,  whom  you  wot  of; 
that  is  your  duty,  Madame,  and  mine  is  to  "pursue  my 
high  calling";  and  so  I  go  back  to  it  with  a  full  grateful 
heart,  and  say  God  bless  all.  If  it  hadn't  been  pouring- 
o'-rain  so,  I  think  I  should  have  gone  off  to  His  Rever- 
ence at  Brighton;  so  I  send  him  my  very  best  regards, 
and  a  whole  box  full  of  kisses  to  the  children.  Farewell. 


Mt.  37]        WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY  343 

37] 


To  THE  SAME 
[JULES  JANIN;  A  "MISS  FOTHERINGAY"] 

[PARIS,  Feb.,  1849.] 
My  dear  Lady: 

I  have  been  to  see  a  great  character  to-day  and  another 
still  greater  yesterday.  To-day  was  Jules  Janin,  whose 
books  you  never  read,  nor  do  I  suppose  you  could  very 
well.  He  is  the  critic  of  the  Journal  des  Debats  and 
has  made  his  weekly  feuilleton  famous  throughout  Europe. 
—  He  does  not  know  a  word  of  English,  but  he  translated 
Sterne  and  I  think  Clarissa  Harlowe.  One  week,  having 
no  theatres  to  describe  in  his  feuilleton,  or  no  other  sub- 
ject handy,  he  described  his  own  marriage,  which  took 
place  in  fact  that  week,  and  absolutely  made  a  present  of 
his  sensations  to  all  the  European  public.  He  has  the 
most  wonderful  verve,  humour,  oddity,  honesty,  bon- 
homie. He  was  ill  with  the  gout,  or  recovering  perhaps; 
but  bounced  about  the  room,  gesticulating,  joking,  gas- 
conading, quoting  Latin,  pulling  out  his  books  which 
are  very  handsome,  and  tossing  about  his  curling  brown 
hair;  —  a  magnificent  jolly  intelligent  face  such  as  would 
suit  Pan  I  should  think,  a  flood  of  humorous,  rich,  jovial 
talk.  And  now  I  have  described  this,  how  are  you  to 
have  the  least  idea  of  him.  —  I  daresay  it  is  not  a  bit  like 
him.  He  recommended  me  to  read  Diderot;  which  I 
have  been  reading  in  at  his  recommendation;  and  that 
is  a  remarkable  sentimental  cynic,  too;  in  his  way  of 
thinking  and  sudden  humours  not  unlike  —  not  unlike  Mr. 
Bowes  of  the  Chatteris  Theatre.  I  can  fancy  Harry 
Pendennis  and  him  seated  on  the  bridge  and  talking  of 
their  mutual  mishaps;  —  no,  Arthur  Pendennis  the  boy's 
name  is!  I  shall  be  forgetting  my  own  next.  But  mind 
you,  my  similes  don't  go  any  further:  and  I  hope  you 
don't  go  for  to  fancy  that  you  know  anybody  like  Miss 
Fotheringay  —  you  don't  suppose  that  I  think  that  you 
have  no  heart,  do  you?  But  there's  many  a  woman  who 
has  none,  and  about  whom  men  go  crazy;  —  such  was  the 
other  character  I  saw  yesterday.  We  had  a  long  talk  in 
which  she  showed  me  her  interior,  and  I  inspected  it 


344  WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY         [Mt.  37 

and  left  it  in  a  state  of  wonderment  which  I  can't  de- 
scribe. .  .  . 

She  is  kind,  frank,  open-handed,  not  very  refined,  with 
a  warm  outpouring  of  language;  and  thinks  herself  the 
most  feeling  creature  in  the  world.  The  way  in  which 
she  fascinates  some  people  is  quite  extraordinary.  She 
affected  me  by  telling  me  of  an  old  friend  of  ours  in  the 
country — Dr.  Portman's  daughter  indeed,  who  was  a 
parson  in  our  parts — who  died  of  consumption  the  other 
day  after  leading  the  purest  and  saintliest  life,  and  who 
after  she  had  received  the  sacrament  read  over  her 
friend's  letter  and  actually  died  with  it  on  the  bed.  Her 
husband  adores  her;  he  is  an  old  cavalry  Colonel  of  sixty, 
and  the  poor  fellow  away  now  in  India,  and  yearning 
after  her  writes  her  yards  and  yards  of  the  most  tender, 
submissive,  frantic  letters;  five  or  six  other  men  are 
crazy  about  her.  She  trotted  them  all  out,  one  after  an- 
other before  me  last  night;  not  humourously,  I  mean, 
nor  making  fun  of  them;  but  complacently  describing 
their  adoration  for  her  and  acquiescing  in  their  opinion 
of  herself.  Friends,  lover,  husband,  she  coaxes  them  all; 
and  no  more  cares  for  them  than  worthy  Miss  Fother- 
ingay  did. — Oh!  Becky  is  a  trifle  to  her;  and  I  am  sure 
I  might  draw  her  picture  and  she  would  never  know  in 
the  least  that  it  was  herself.  I  suppose  I  did  not  fall  in 
love  with  her  myself  because  we  were  brought  up  to- 
gether; she  was  a  very  simple  generous  creature  then. 

Tuesday.  Friend  came  in  as  I  was  writing  last  night, 
perhaps  in  time  to  stop  my  chattering;  but  I  am  encore 
tout  emerveille  de  ma  cousine.  By  all  the  Gods!  I  never 
had  the  opportunity  of  inspecting  such  a  naturalness 
and  coquetry;  not  that  I  suppose  that  there  are  not  many 
such  women;  but  I  have  only  myself  known  one  or  two 
women  intimately,  and  I  daresay  the  novelty  would  wear 
off  if  I  knew  more.  I  had  the  Revue  des  2  mondes  and 
the  Journal  des  Debats  to  dinner;  and  what  do  you  think 
by  way  of  a  delicate  attention  the  chef  served  us  up? 
Mock-turtle  soup  again,  and  uncommonly  good  it  was 
too.  After  dinner  I  went  to  a  ball  at  the  prefecture  of 
Police;  the  most  splendid  apartments  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life.  Such  lights,  pillars,  marble,  hangings,  carvings, 
and  gildings.  I  am  sure  King  Belshazzar  could  not  have 


Mt.  37]         WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY  345 

been  more  magnificently  lodged. — There  must  have  been 
15  hundred  people,  of  whom  I  did  not  know  one  single 
soul.  I  am  surprised  that  the  people  did  not  faint  in 
the  Saloons,  which  were  like  burning  fiery  furnaces;  but 
there  they  were  dancing  and  tripping  away,  ogling  and 
flirting,  and  I  suppose  not  finding  the  place  a  bit  incon- 
veniently warm.  The  women  were  very  queer  looking 
bodies  for  the  most,  I  thought,  but  the  men  dandies  every 
one,  fierce  and  trim  with  curling  little  mustachios.  I 
felt  dimly  that  I  was  3  inches  taller  than  any  body  else 
in  the  room  but  I  hoped  that  nobody  took  notice  of  me. 
There  was  a  rush  for  ices  at  a  footman  who  brought 
those  refreshments  which  was  perfectly  terrific. — They 
were  scattered  melting  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  as  I 
ran  out  of  it  in  a  panic.  There  was  an  old  British  dow- 
ager with  two  daughters  seated  up  against  a  wall  very 
dowdy  and  sad,  poor  old  lady;  I  wonder  what  she  wanted 
there  and  whether  that  was  what  she  called  pleasure.  I 
went  to  see  William's  old  friend  and  mine,  Bowes;  he 
has  forty  thousand  a  year  and  palaces  in  the  country, 
and  here  he  is  a  manager  of  a  Theatre  of  Varietes,  and 
his  talk  was  about  actors  and  coulisses  all  the  time  of 
our  interview.  I  wish  it  could  be  the  last,  but  he  has 
made  me  promise  to  dine  with  him,  and  go  I  must,  to 
be  killed  by  his  melancholy  gentlemanlikeness.  I  think 
that  is  all  I  did  yesterday.  Dear  Lady,  I  am  pained  at 
your  having  been  unwell;  I  thought  you  must  have  been, 
when  Saturday  came  without  any  letter.  There  wont  be 
one  today  I  bet  twopence.  I  am  going  to  a  lecture  at 
the  Institute;  a  lecture  on  Burns  by  M.  Chasles,  who  is 
professor  of  English  literature.  What  a  course  of  lion- 
izing, isn't  it?  But  it  must  stop;  for  is  not  the  month 
the  shortest  of  months?  I  went  to  see  my  old  haunts 
when  I  came  to  Paris  13  years  ago,  and  made  believe  to 
be  a  painter, — just  after  I  was  ruined  and  before  I  fell 
in  love  and  took  to  marriage  and  writing.  It  was  a  very 
jolly  time,  I  was  as  poor  as  Job  and  sketched  away  most 
abominably,  but  pretty  contented;  and  we  used  to  meet 
in  each  others  little  rooms  and  talk  about  art  and  smoke 
pipes  and  drink  bad  brandy  and  water. — That  awful 
habit  still  remains,  but  where  is  art,  that  dear  mistress 
whom  I  loved,  though  in  a  very  indolent  capricious  man- 


346  WILLIAM   M.    THACKERAY         [^Et.  37 

ner,  but  with  a  real  sincerity? — I  see  her  far,  very  far 
off.  I  jilted  her,  I  know  it  very  well;  but  you  see  it  was 
Pate  ordained  that  marriage  should  'never  take  place; 
and  forced  me  to  take  on  with  another  lady,  two  other 
ladies,  three  other  ladies;  I  mean  the  muse  and  my  wife 
&c.  &c. 

Well  you  are  very  good  to  listen  to  all  this  egotistic 
prattle,  chere  soeur,  si  douce  et  si  bonne.  I  have  no 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  my  loves,  seeing  that  all  three 
are  quite  lawful.  Did  you  go  to  see  my  people  yester- 
day? Some  day  when  his  reverence  is  away,  will  you 
have  the  children?  and  not,  if  you  please,  be  so  vain  as 
to  fancy  that  you  can't  amuse  them  or  that  they  will  be 
bored  in  your  house.  They  must  and  shall  .be  fond  of 
you,  if  you  please.  Alfred's  open  mouth  as  he  looked  at 
the  broken  bottle  and  spilt  wine  must  have  been  a  grand 
picture  of  agony. 

I  couldn't  find  the  lecture  room  at  the  Institute,  so  I 
went  to  the  Louvre  instead  and  took  a  feast  with  the 
statues  and  pictures.  The  Venus  of  Milo  is  the  grandest 
figure  of  figures.  The  wave  of  the  lines  of  the  figure, 
whenever  seen,  fills  my  senses  with  pleasure.  What  is  it 
which  so  charms,  satisfies  one,  in  certain  lines?  0!  the 
man  who  achieved  that  statue  was  a  beautiful  genius.  I 
have  been  sitting  thinking  of  it  these  10  minutes  in  a 
delightful  sensuous  rumination.  The  Colours  of  the 
Titian  pictures  comfort  one's  eyes  similarly;  and  after 
these  feasts,  which  wouldn't  please  my  lady  very  much  I 
daresay,  being  I  should  think  too  earthly  for  you,  I  went 
and  looked  at  a  picture  I  usedn't  to  care  much  for  in 
old  days,  an  angel  saluting  a  Virgin  and  child  by  Pietro 
Cortona, — a  sweet  smiling  angel  with  a  lily  in  her  hands, 
looking  so  tender  and  gentle  I  wished  that  instant  to 
make  a  copy  of  it,  and  do  it  beautifully,  which  I  can't, 
and  present  it  to  somebody  on  Lady-day. — There  now, 
just  fancy  it  is  done,  and  presented  in  a  neat  compli- 
ment, and  hung  up  in  your  room — a  pretty  piece — dainty 

and  devotional? — I  drove  about  with ,  and  wondered 

at  her  more  and  more. — She  is  come  to  "my  dearest 
William"  now:  though  she  doesn't  care  a  fig  for  me. — 
She  told  me  astonishing  things,  showed  me  a  letter  in 
which  every  word  was  true  and  which  was  a  fib  from  be- 


.£t.  38]         WILLIAM   M.    THACKERAY  347 

ginning  to  end; — A  miracle  of  deception; — flattered,  fon- 
dled, coaxed — O!  she  was  worth  coming  to  Paris  for! 
.  .  .  Pray  God  to  keep  us  simple.  I  have  never  looked 
at  anything  in  my  life  which  has  so  amazed  me.  Why, 
this  is  as  good,  almost,  as  if  I  had  you  to  talk  to.  Let 
us  go  out  and  have  another  walk. 


.  38] 

To  THE  SAME 
["BIG  HIGGINS"] 

[1849.] 

...  I  am  going  to  dine  at  the  Berrys'  to-day  and  to 
Lady  Ashburton's  at  night.  I  dined  at  home  three  days 
running,  think  of  that.  This  is  my  news,  it  isn't  much 
is  it?  I  have  written  a  wicked  number  of  Pendennis, 
but  like  it  rather;  it  has  a  good  moral,  I  believe,  although 
to  some  it  may  appear  naughty.  Big  Higgins,  who  dined 
with  me  yesterday,  offered  me,  what  do  you  think?  "If," 
says  he,  "you  are  tired  and  want  to  lie  fallow  for  a  year, 
come  to  me  for  the  money.  I  have  much  more  than  I 
want."  Wasn't  it  kind?  I  like  to  hear  and  to  tell  of 
kind  things.  .  .  . 

To  THE  SAME 
["THOSE  INIMITABLE  DICKENS  TOUCHES"] 

Wednesday,  1849. 

What  have  I  been  doing  since  these  many  days?  I 
hardly  know.  I  have  written  such  a  stupid  number  of 
Pendennis  in  consequence  of  not  seeing  you,  that  I  shall 
be  ruined  if  you  are  to  stay  away  much  longer.  .  .  . 
Has  William  written  to  you  about  our  trip  to  Hamp- 
stead  on  Sunday?  It  was  very  pleasant.  We  went  first 
to  St.  Mark's  church,  where  I  always  thought  you  went, 
but  where  the  pew-opener  had  never  heard  of  such  a  per- 
son as  Mrs.  J.  O.  B.;  and  having  heard  a  jolly  and  per- 
fectly stupid  sermon,  walked  over  Primrose  Hill  to  the 
Crowes',  where  His  Reverence  gave  Mrs.  Crowe  half  an 
hour's  private  talk,  whilst  I  was  talking  under  the  blos- 
soming apple  tree  about  newspapers  to  Monsieur  Crowe. 
Well,  Mrs.  Crowe  was  delighted  with  William  and  his 


348  WILLIAM    M.    THACKEKAY          ^Et.  38 


manner  of  discoorsing  her;  and  indeed,  though  I  say  it 
that  shouldn't,  from  what  he  said  afterwards,  and  from 
what  we  have  often  talked  over  pipes  in  private,  that  is 
a  pious  and  kind  soul.  I  mean  his,  and  calculated  to 
soothe  and  comfort  and  appreciate  and  elevate  so  to  speak 
out  of  despair,  many  a  soul  that  your  more  tremendous, 
rigorous  divines  would  leave  on  the  wayside,  where  sin, 
that  robber,  had  left  them  half  killed.  I  will  have  a 
Samaritan  parson  when  I  fall  among  thieves.  You,  dear 
lady,  may  send  for  an  ascetic  if  you  like;  what  is  he  to 
find  wrong  in  you  ? 

I  have  talked  to  my  mother  about  her  going  to  Paris 
with  the  children;  she  is  very  much  pleased  at  the  no- 
tion, and  it  won't  be  very  lonely  to  me.  I  shall  be  alone 
for  some  months  at  any  rate,  and  vow  and  swear  I'll 
save  money.  .  .  .  Have  you  read  Dickens  ?  O  !  it  is 
charming!  brave  Dickens!  It  has  some  of  his  very  pret- 
tiest touches  —  those  inimitable  Dickens  touches  which 
make  such  a  great  man  of  him;  and  the  reading  of  the 
book  has  done  another  author  a  great  deal  of  good.  In 
the  first  place  it  pleases  the  other  author  to  see  that 
Dickens,  who  has  long  left  off  alluding  to  the  A.'s  works, 
has  been  copying  the  O.  A.,  and  greatly  simplifying  his 
style,  and  overcoming  the  use  of  fine  words.  By  this  the 
public  will  be  the  gainer  and  D~avid  Copperfield  will  be 
improved  by  taking  a  lesson  from  Vanity  Fair.  Secondly 
it  has  put  me  upon  my  metal;  for  ah!  Madame,  all  the 
metal  was  out  of  me  and  I  have  been  dreadfully  and 
curiously  cast  down  this  month  past.  I  say,  secondly,  it 
has  put  me  on  my  metal  and  made  me  feel  I  must  do 
something;  that  I  have  fame  and  name  and  family  to 
support.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  come  away  from  a  dismal  sight;  Gore 
House  fullof  snobs  looking  at  the  furniture.  Foul  Jews; 
odious  bombazine  women,  who  drove  up  in  mysterious 
flys  which  they  had  hired,  the  wretches,  tq  be  fined,  so 
as  to  come  in  state  to  a  fashionable  lounge;  brutes  keep- 
ing their  hats  on  in  the  kind  old  drawing  room,  —  I  longed 
to  knock  some  of  them  off,  and  say  "Sir,  be  civil  in  a 
lady's  room."  .  .  .  There  was  one  of  the  servants  there, 
not  a  powdered  one,  but  a  butler,  a  whatdyoucallit.  My 
heart  melted  towards  him  and  I  gave  him  a  pound.  Ah  ! 


38]         WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY  349 

it  was  a  strange,  sad  picture  of  Vanity  Fair.  My  mind 
is  all  boiling  up  with  it;  indeed,  it  is  in  a  queer  state. 
...  I  give  my  best  remembrances  to  all  at  Clevedon 
Court. 


38] 

To  THE  SAME 
[MR.  H.,  THE  WIDOWER] 

[4th  Sept.,  1849] 
Tuesday,  PARIS. 

Perhaps  by  my  intolerable  meanness  and  blundering, 
you  will  not  get  any  letter  from  me  till  to-morrow.  On 
Sunday,  the  man  who  was  to  take  the  letter  failed  me; 
yesterday  I  went  with  it  in  a  cab  to  the  Grande  Poste, 
which  is  a  mile  off,  and  where  you  have  to  go  to  pay. 
The  cab  horse  was  lame,  and  we  arrived  two  minutes  too 
late;  I  put  the  letter  into  the  unpaid-letter  box;  I  dis- 
missed the  poor  old  broken  cab  horse,  behind  which  it 
was  agonizing  to  sit ;  in  fine  it  was  a  failure. 

When  I  got  to  dinner  at  my  aunt's,  I  found  it  all  was 
over.  Mrs.  H.  died  on  Sunday  night  in  her  sleep,  quite 
without  pain,  or  any  knowledge  of  the  transition.  I  went 
and  sat  with  her  husband,  an  old  fellow  of  seventy-two, 
and  found  him  bearing  his  calamity  in  a  very  honest 
manly  way.  Whai  do  you  think  the  old  gentlemen  was 
doing?  Well,  he  was  drinking  gin  and  water,  and  I  had 
some  too,  telling  his  valet  to  make  me  some.  Man  thought 
this  was  a  master-stroke  of  diplomacy  and  evidently 
thinks  I  have  arrived  to  take  possession  as  heir,  but  I 
know  nothing  about  money  matters  as  yet,  and  think 
that  the  old  gentleman  at  least  will  have  the  enjoyment 
of  my  aunt's  property  during  life.  He  told  me  some 
family  secrets,  in  which  persons  of  repute  figure  not 
honorably.  Ah!  they  shock  one  to  think  of.  Pray,  have 
you  ever  committed  any  roguery  in  money  matters?  Has 
William  ?  Have  I  ?  I  am  more  likely  to  do  it  than  he, 
that  honest  man,  not  having  his  resolution  or  self-denial. 
But  I've  not  as  yet,  beyond  the  roguery  of  not  saving 
perhaps,  which  is  knavish  too.  I  am  very  glad  I  came 
to  see  my  dearest  old  aunt.  She  is  such  a  kind  tender 


350  WILLIAM   M.    THACKERAY         [>Et.  38 

creature,  laws  bless  us,  how  fond  she  would  be  of  you. 
I  was  going  to  begin  about  William  and  say,  "do  you 
remember  a  friend  of  mine  who  came  to  dine  at  the 
Thermes,  and  sang  the  song  about  the  Mogul,  and  the 
blue-bottle  fly,"  but  modesty  forbade  and  I  was  dumb. 

Since  this  was  written  in  the  afternoon  I  suppose  if 
there  has  been  one  virtuous  man  in  Paris  it  is  madame's 
most  obajient  servant.  I  went  to  sit  with  Mr.  H.  and 
found  him  taking  what  he  calls  his  tiffin  in  great  com- 
fort (tiffin  is  the  meal  which  I  have  sometimes  had  the 
honor  of  sharing  with  you  at  one  o'clock)  and  this  trans- 
acted,— and  I  didn't  have  any  tiffin,  having  consumed 
a  good  breakfast  two  hours  previously — I  went  up  a  hun- 
dred stairs  at  least,  to  Miss  B.  H.'s  airy  apartment,  and 
found  her  and  her  sister,  and  sat  for  an  hour.  She  asked 
after  you  so  warmly  that  I  was  quite  pleased;  she  said 
she  had  the  highest  respect  for  you,  and  I  was  glad  to 
find  somebody  who  knew  you;  and  all  I  can  say  is,  if 
you  fancy  I  like  being  here  better  than  in  London,  you 
are  in  a  pleasing  error. 

Then  I  went  to  see  a  friend  of  my  mother's,  then  to 
have  a  very  good  dinner  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  where  I 
had  potage  a  la  pourpart,  think  of  pourpart  soup.  We 
had  it  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  name,  and  it  was  un- 
commonly good.  Then  back  to  old  H.  again,  to  bawl  into 
his  ears  for  an  hour  and  a  half;  then  to  drink  tea  with 
my  aunt — why,  life  has  been  a  series  of  sacrifices  today, 
and  I  must  be  written  up  in  the  book  of  good  works.  For 
I  should  have  liked  to  go  to  the  play,  and  follow  my  own 
devices  best,  but  for  that  stern  sentiment  of  duty,  which 
fitfully  comes  over  the  most  abandoned  of  men,  at  times. 
All  the  time  I  was  with  Mr.  H.  in  the  morning,  what 
do  you  think  they  were  doing  in  the  next  room?  It  was 
like  a  novel.  They  were  rapping  at  a  coffin  in  the  bed- 
room, but  he  was  too  deaf  to  hear,  and  seems  too  old  to 
care  very  much.  Ah!  dear  lady,  I  hope  you  are  sleeping 
happily  at  this  hour,  and  you,  and  Mr.  Williams,  and  an- 
other party  who  is  nameless,  shall  have  all  the  benefits 
of  an  old  sinner's  prayers. 

I  suppose  I  was  too  virtuous  on  Tuesday,  for  yesterday 
I  got  back  to  my  old  selfish  ways  again,  and  did  what  I 
liked  from  morning  till  night.  This  self  indulgence 


Mi.  38]        WILLIAM   M.   THACKEEAY  351 

though  entire  was  not  criminal,  at  first  at  least,  but  I 
shall  come  to  the  painful  part  of  my  memoirs  presently. 
All  the  forenoon  I  read  with  intense  delight,  a  novel 
called  Le  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne,  a  Continuation  of  the 
famous  Mousquetaires  and  just  as  interesting,  keeping 
one  panting  from  volume  to  volume,  and  longing  for 
more.  This  done,  and  after  a  walk  and  some  visits,  read 
more  novels,  David  Copperfield  to  wit,  in  which  theie  is 
a  charming  bit  of  insanity,  and  which  I  begin  to  believe 
is  the  very  best  thing  the  author  h^s  yet  done.  Then  to 
the  Varietes  Theatre,  to  see  the  play  Chameleon,  after 
which  all  Paris  is  running,  a  general  satire  upon  the  last 
60  years.  Everything  is  satirised,  Louis  XVI,  the  Con- 
vention, the  Empire,  the  Restoration  etc.,  the  barricades, 
at  which  these  people  were  murdering  each  other  only 
yesterday — it's  awful,  immodest,  surpasses  my  cynicism 
altogether.  At  the  end  of  the  piece  th^y  pretend  to  bring 
in  the  author,  and  a  little  child  who  can  just  speak,  comes 
in  and  sings  a  satiric  song,  in  a  feebb,  tender,  infantine 
pipe,  which  seemed  to  me  as  impious  as  the  whole  of  the 
rest  of  the  piece.  They  don't  care  for  anything,  not  re- 
ligion, not  bravery,  not  liberty,  not  great  men,  not  mod- 
esty. Ah!  madame,  what  a  great  moralist  somebody  is, 
and  what  moighty  foine  principles  entoirely  he  has! 

But  now,  with  a  blush  upon  my  damask  cheek,  I  come 
to  the  adventures  of  the  day.  You  must  know  I  went  to 
the  play  with  an  old  comrade,  Roger  de  Beauvoir,  an  ex- 
dandy  and  man  of  letters,  who  talked  incessantly  during 
the  whole  of  dinner  time,  as  I  remember,  though  I  can't 
for  the  life  of  me  recall  what  he  said.  Well,  we  went  to- 
gether to  the  play,  and  he  took  me  where  William  would 
long  to  go,  to  the  green-room.  I  have  never  been  in  a 
French  green-room  before,  and  was  not  much  excited, 
but  when  he  proposed  to  take  me  up  to  the  loge  of  a 
beautiful  actress  with  sparkling  eyes  and  the  prettiest 
little-  retrousse  nosey-posey  in  the  world,  I  said  to  the 
regisseur  of  the  theatre  "lead  on!"  and  we  went  through 
passages  and  up  stairs  to  the  loge,  which  is  not  a  box, 
but  O !  gracious  goodness,  a  dressing  room ! 

She  had  just  taken  off  her  rouge,  her  complexion  was 
only  a  thousand  times  more  brilliant,  perhaps,  the  peig- 
noir of  black  satin  which  partially  enveloped  her  perfect 


352  WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY         [.Et.  38 

form,  only  served  to  heighten  &c,  which  it  could'  but 
partially  do  &c.  Her  lips  are  really  as  red  as  &c,  and  not 
covered  with  paint  at  all.  Her  voice  is  delicious,  her 
eyes,  O !  they  flashed  &c  upon  me,  and  I  felt  my  &c,  beat- 
ing so  that  I  could  hardly  speak.  I  pitched  in,  if  you 
will  permit  me  the  phrase,  two  or  three  compliments  how- 
ever, very  large  and  heavy,  of  the  good  old  English  sort, 
and  O !  mon  dieu,  she  has  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her. 
Shall  I  go,  or  shan't  I?  Shall  I  go  this  very  day  at  4 
o'clock,  or  shall  I  not?  Well,  I  won't  tell  you,  I  will  put 
up  my  letter  before  4,  and  keep  this  piece  of  intelligence 
for  the  next  packet. 

The  funeral  takes  place  to-morrow,  and  as  I  don't  seem 
to  do  much  work  here,  I  shall  be  soon  probably  on  the 
wing,  but  perhaps  I  will  take  a  week's  touring  somewhere 
about'  France,  Tours  and  Nantes  perhaps  or  elsewhere, 
or  anywhere,  I  don't  know;  but  I  hope  before  I  go  to 
hear  once  more  from  you.  I  am  happy  indeed  to  hear 
how  well  you  are.  What  a  shame  it  was  to  assault  my 
dear  lady  with  my  blue  devils.  Who  could  help  looking 
to  the  day  of  failing  powers,  but  if  I  last  a  few  years,  no 
doubt  I  can  get  a  shelter  somewhere  against  that  certain 
adversity,  and  so  I  ought  not  to  show  you  my  glum  face 
or  my  dismal  feelings.  That's  the  worst  of  habit  and 
confidence.  You  are  so  kind  to  me  that  I  like  to  tell 
you  all,  and  to  think  that  in  good  or  ill  fortune  I  have 
your  sympathy.  Here's  an  opportunity  for  sentiment, 
here's  just  a  little  bit  of  the  page  left  to  say  something 
neat  and  pretty.  Je  les  meprise  les  jolis  mots,  vous  en 
ai-je  jamais  fait  de  ma  vie?  Je  les  laisse  a  Monsieur 
Bullar  et  ses  pareils — j'en  ferai  pour  Mademoiselle  Page, 
pour  la  ravissante  la  semillante  la  fretillante  Adele  (c'est 
ainsi  qu'elle  se  nomme)  mais  pour  vous  ?  Allons — partons 
— il  est  quatre  heures — fermons  la  lettre — disons  adieu, 
Paime  et  moi — vous  m'ecrirez  avant  mon  depart  n'est  ce 
pas?  Allez  bien,  dormez  bien,  marchez  bien,  s'il  vous 
plait,  et  gardy  mwaw  ung  petty  moreso  de  voter  cure. 

W.  M.  T. 


Mt.  38]         WILLIAM   M.    THACKEEAY  353 

t  38] 


To  THE  SAME 

["l    AM    AFRAID    I    DISGUSTED    MACAULAY"] 

[PARIS,  September  14,  1849.] 
My  dear  Lady: 

This  letter  doesn't  count,  though  it's  most  probbly 
the  last  of  the  series.  Yesterday  I  couldn't  write  for  I 
went  to  Chambourey  early  in  the  morning  to  see  those 
two  poor  Miss  Powers,  and  the  poor  old  faded  and  un- 
happy D'Orsay,  and  I  did  not  return  home  till  exactly  1 
minute  before  post  time,  perhaps  2  late  for  the  letter 
which  I  flung  into  the  post  last  night.  And  so  this  is 
the  last  of  the  letters  and  I  am  coming  back  immediately. 
The  last  anything  is  unpleasant.  .  .  . 

I  was  to  have  gone  to-morrow  for  certain  to  Boulogne, 
at  least,  but  a  party  to  Fontainebleau  was  proposed  —  by 
whom  do  you  think?  —  by  the  President  himself;  I  am 
going  to  dine  with  him  to-day,  think  of  that!  I  believe 
I  write  this  for  the  purpose  solely  of  telling  you  this,  — 
the  truth  is  I  have  made  acquaintance  here  with  Lord 
Douglas,  who  is  very  good  natured,  and  I  suppose  has 
been  instigating  the  President  to  these  hospitalities.  I 
am  afraid  I  disgusted  Macaulay  yesterday  at  dinner,  at 
Sir  George  Napier's.  We  were  told  that  an  American 
lady  was  coming  in  the  evening,  whose  great  desire  in 
life,  was  to  meet  the  author  of  Vanity  Fair,  and  the  au- 
thor of  the  Lays  of  A.  Rome,  so  I  proposed  to  Macaulay 
to  enact  me,  and  to  let  me  take  his  character.  But  he 
said  solemnly,  that  he  did  not  approve  of  practical  jokes, 
and  so  this  sport  did  not  come  to  pass.  Well,  I  shall  see" 
you  at  any  rate,  some  day  before  the  23d.,  and  I  hope 
you  will  be  happy  at  Southampton  enjoying  the  end  of 
the  autumn,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  old 
Mr.  Williams  too,  for  I  don't  care  for  new  acquaintances, 
whatever  some  people  say,  and  have  only  your  house  now 
where  I  am  completely  at  home.  I  have  been  idle  here, 
but  I  have  done  plenty  of  dutifulness,  haven't  I  ?  I  must 
go  dress  myself,  and  tell  old  Dr.  Halliday  that  I  am  go- 
ing to  dine  with  the  President;  that  will  please  him  more 
than  even  my  conversation  this  evening,  and  the  event 
will  be  written  over  to  all  the  family  before  long,  be  sure 


354  WILLIAM   M.    THACKEEAY         [Mt.  39 

of  that.  Don't  you  think  Mr.  Parr  will  like  to  know  it, 
and  that  it  will  put  me  well  with  him?  Perhaps  I  shall 
find  the  grand  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  under  my 
plate ;  I  will  put  it  on  and  come  to  you  in  it  in  that  case. 

I  was  going  to  have  the  impudence  .to  give  you  a 
daguerreotype  of  myself  which  has  been  done  here,  very 
like  and  droll  it  looks,  but  it  seemed  to  me  too  imperti- 
nent, and  I  gave  it  to  somebody  else.  I've  bought  William 
four  glasses  to  drink  beer  out  of,  since  I  never  can  get 
one  of  the  silver  ones  when  I  come;  don't  let  him  be 
alarmed:  these  only  cost  a  shilling  apiece,  and  two  such 
loves  of  eau  de  Cologne  bottles  for  Mrs.  Procter,  and  for 
my  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield  I  have  bought  a  diamond  neck- 
lace and  earrings, — I  have  bought  you  nothing  but  the 
handkerchiefs  but  I  hope  you  will  let  me  give  you  those, 
won't  you? 

1  was  very  sorry  for  Turpin;  I  do  feel  an  interest  in 
her,  and  I  think  she  is  very  pretty;  all  this  I  solemnly 
vow  and  protest.  My  paper  is  out,  here's  the  last  corner 
of  the  last  letter.  I  wonder  who  will  ask  me  to  dine  on 
Monday  next. 


.  39] 

To  THE  SAME 
[LAMARTINE;  A  CHILD  ACTRESS] 

[PARIS,  1850.] 
My  dear  Lady: 

Do  you  see  how  mad  everybody  is  in  the  world?  or  is 
•it  not  my  own  insanity?  Yesterday,  when  it  became 
time  to  shut  up  my  letter,  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about 
my  elders,  who.  have  got  hold  of  a  mad  old  Indian  woman, 
who  calls  herself  Aline  Gultave  d'origine  Mogole,  who  is 
stark,  staring  mad,  and  sees  visions,  works  miracles,  que 
sais-jef  The  old  fool  is  mad  of  sheer  vanity,  and  yet 
fool  as  she  is,  my  people  actually  believe  in  her,  and  I 
believe  the  old  gentleman  goes  to  her  every  day.  To-day 
I  went  to  see  D'Orsay,  who  has  made  a  bust  of  Lamar- 
tine,  who,  'too,  is  mad  with  vanity.  He  has  written  some 
verses  on  his  bust,  and  asks,  Who  is  this?  Is  it  a  war- 
rior ?  Is  it  a  hero  ?  Is  it  a  priest  ?  Is  it  a  sage  ?  Is  it  a 


^Et.  39]         WILLIAM   M.    THACKEEAY  355 

tribune  of  the  people  ?  Is  it  an  Adonis  ?  meaning  that  he 
is  all  these  things, — verses  so  fatuous  and  crazy  I  never 
saw.  Well,  D'Orsay  says  they  are  the  finest  verses  that 
ever  were  written,  and  imparts  to  me  a  translation  which 
Miss  Power  has  made  of  them;  and  D'Orsay  believes  in 
his  mad  rubbish  of  a  statue,  which  he  didn't  make;  be- 
lieves in  it  in  the  mad  way  that  madmen  do, — that  it  is 
divine,  and  that  he  made  it;  only  as  you  look  in  his  eyes, 
you  see  that  he  doesn't  quite  believe,  and  when  pressed 
hesitates,  and  turns  away  with  a  howl  of  rage.  D'Orsay 
has  fitted  himself  up  a  charming  atelier  with  arms  and 
trophies,  pictures  and  looking-glasses,  the  tomb  of  Bless- 
ington,  the  sword  and  star  of  Napoleon,  and  a  crucifix 
over  his  bed ;  and  here  he  dwells  without  any  doubts  or 
remorses,  admiring  himself  in  the  most  horrible  pictures 
which  he  has  painted,  and  the  statues  which  he  gets  done 
for  him.  I  had  been  at  work  till  two,  all  day  before  go- 
ing to  see  him ;  and  thence  ,went  to  Lady  Normanby,  who 
was  very  pleasant  and  talkative;  and  then  tramping  upon 
a  half  dozen  of  visits  of  duty.  I  had  refused  proffered 
banquets  in  order  to  dine  at  home,  but  when  I  got  home 
at  the  dinner  hour,  everybody  was  away,  the  bonne  was 
ill  and  obliged  to  go  to  the  country,  and  parents  and 

children  were   away  to   dine  with   a  Mrs. ,   a  -good 

woman  who  writes  books,  keeps  a  select  boarding-house 
for  young  ladies  who  wish  to  see  Parisian  society,  and 
whom  I  like,  but  cannot  bear,  because  she  has  the  organ 
of  admiration  too  strongly.  Papa  was  king,  mamma  was 
queen,  in  this  company,  I  a  sort  of  foreign  emperor  with 
the  princesses  my  daughters.  By  Jove,  it  was  intolerably 
painful;  and  I  must  go  to  her  soiree  to-morrow  night  too, 
and  drag  about  in  this  confounded  little  Pedlington. 
Yesterday  night, — I  am  afraid  it  was  the  first  day  of  the 
week, — I  dined  with  Morton,  and  met  no  less  than  four 
tables  of  English  I  knew,  and  went  to  the  play.  There 
was  a  little  girl  acting,  who  made  one's  heart  ache; — 
the  joke  of  the  piece  is,  the  child,  who  looks  about  three, 
is  taken  by  the  servants  to  a  casino,  is  carried  off  for  an 
hour  by  some  dragoons,  and  comes  back,  having  learned 
to  smoke,  to  dance  slang  dances,  and  sing  slang  songs. 
Poor  little  rogue,  she  sung  one  of  her  songs,  from  an 
actor's  arms;  a  wicked  song,  in  a  sweet  little  innocent 


356  WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY         [JSt.  39 

voice.  She  will  be  bought  and  sold  within  three  years 
from  this  time,  and  won't  be  playing  at  wickedness  any 
more.  I  shall  shut  up  my  desk  and  say  God  bless  all  the 
little  girls  that  you  and  I  love,  and  their  parents.  God 
bless  you,  dear  Lady. 

I  have  got  a  very  amusing  book,  the  Tatler  newspaper 
of  1709;  and  that  shall  be  my  soporific  I  hope.  I  have 
been  advancing  in  Blue  Beard,  but  must  give  it  up;  it 
is  too  dreadfully  cynical  and  wicked.  It  is  in  blank 
verse  and  all  a  diabolical  sneer.  Depend  upon  it,  Helps 
is  right. 

Wednesday.  If  I  didn't  write  yesterday  it  was  because 
I  was  wickedly  employed.  I  was  gambling  until  two 
o'clock  this  morning,  playing  a  game  called  lansquenet 
which  is  very  good  gambling;  and  I  left  off,  as  I  had 
begun,  very  thankful  not  to  carry  away  any  body's  money 
or  leave  behind  any  of  my  own;  but  it  was  curious  to 
watch  the  tempers  of  the  various  players,  the  meanness 
of  one,  the  flurry  and  excitement  of  another,  the  differ- 
ence of  the  same  man  winning  and  losing;  all  which  I 
got,  besides  a  good  dinner  and  a  headache  this  morning. 
Annie  and  Minnie  and  my  mother,  came  to  see  me  yes- 
terday. I  don't  think  they  will  be  so  very  eager  for  Paris 
after  three  weeks  here;  the  simple  habits  of  our  old  peo- 
ple will  hardly  suit  the  little  women.  Even  in  my  ab- 
sence in  America,  I  don't  quite  like  leaving  them  alto- 
gether here;  I  wonder  if  an  amiable  family,  as  is  very 
kind  to  me,  will  give  them  hospitality  for  a  month?  I 
was  writing  Blue  Beard  all  day;  very  sardonic  and  amus- 
ing to  do,  but  I  doubt  whether  it  will  be  pleasant  to  read 
or  hear,  or  even  whether  it  is  right  to  go  on  with  this 
wicked  vein;  and  also,  I  must  tell  you  that  a  story  is 
biling  up  in  my  interior,  in  which  there  shall  appear 
some  very  good,  lofty,  and  generous  people;  perhaps  a 
story  without  any  villains  in  it  would  be  good,  wouldn't 
it? 

Thursday. — Thanks  for  your  letter,  madame.  If  I  tell 
you  my  plans  and  my  small,  gossip,  I  don't  bore  you,  do 
I?  You  listen  to  them  so  kindly  at  home,  that  I've  got 
the  habit,  you  see.  Why  don't  you  write  a  little  hand- 
writing, and  send  me  yours  ?  This  place  begins  to  be 
as  bad  as  London  in  the  season;  there  are  dinners  and 


JEt.  39]        WILLIAM   M.    THAGKEKAY  357 

routs  for  every  day  and  night.  Last  night  I  went  to  dine 
at  home,  with  bouilli  bceuf  and  ordinaire,  and  bad  ordi- 
naire too;  but  the  dinner  was  just  as  good  as  a  better 
one,  and  afterwards  I  went  with  my  mother  to  a  soiree, 
where  I  had  to  face  fifty  people  of  whom  I  didn't  know 
one;  and  being  there,  was  introduced  to  other  soiree 
givers,  be  hanged  to  them.  And  there  I  left  my  ma,  and 
went  off  to  Madame  Gudin's  the  painter's  wife,  where 
really  there  was  a  beautiful  ball;  and  all  the  world,  all 
the  English  world  that  is;  and  to-night  it  is  the  Presi- 
dent's ball,  if  you  please,  and  to-morrow,  and  the  next 
day,  and  the  next,  more  gaieties.  It  was  queer  to  see 
poor  old  Castlereagh  in  a  dark  room,  keeping  aloof  from 
the  dancing  and  the  gaiety,  and  having  his  thoughts 
fixed  on  kingdom  come,  and  Bennett  confessor  and  mar- 
tyr; while  Lady  Castlereagh,  who  led  him  into  his  devo- 
tional state,  was  enjoying  the  music  and  the  gay  com- 
pany, as  cheerfully  as  the  most  mundane  person  present. 
The  French  people  all  talk  to  me  about  Ponche,  when  I 
am  introduced  to  them,  which  wounds  my  vanity,  which 
is  wholesome  very  likely.  Among  the  notabilities  was 
Vicomte  D'Arlincourt,  a  mad  old  romance  writer,  on 
whom  I  amused  myself  by  pouring  the  most  tremendous 
compliments  I  could  invent.  He  said,  j'ai  vu  I'Ecosse; 
mais  Valter  Scott  riy  etait  plus,  helas!  I  said,  vous 
y  etiez,  Vicomte,  c'etait  bien  assez  d'un — on  which  the 
old  boy  said  I  possessed  French  admirably,  and  knew  to 
speak  the  prettiest  things  in  the  prettiest  manner.  I  wish 
you  could  see  him,  I  wish  you  could  see  the  world  here. 
I  wish  you  and  Mr.  were  coming  to  the  play  with  me 
to-night,  to  a  regular  melodrama,  far  away  on  the  Boule- 
vard, and  a  quiet  little  snug  dinner  au  Banquet  d'Ana- 
creon.  The  Banquet  d'Anacreon  is  a  dingy  little  restau- 
rant on  the  boulevard  where  all  the  plays  are  acted, 
and  they  tell  great  things  of  a  piece  called  Paillasse  in 
which  Le  Maitre  performs;  nous  verrons,  Madame,  nous 
verrons.  But  with  all  this  racket  and  gaiety,  do  you 
understand  that  a  gentleman  feels  very  lonely?  I  swear 
I  had  sooner  have  a  pipe  and  a  gin  and  water  soiree  with 
somebody,  than  the  best  President's  orgeat.  I  go  to  my 
cousins  for  half  an  hour  almost  every  day;  you'd  like 
them  better  than  poor  Mary  whom  you  won't  be  able  to 


358  WILLIAM   M.    THACKERAY         [Mt.  40 

stand,  at  least  if  she  talks  to  you  about  her  bodily  state 
as  she  talks  to  me.  What  else  shall  I  say  in  this  stupid 
letter?  I've  not  seen  any  children  as  pretty  as  Magda- 
lene, that's  all.  I  have  told  Annie  to  write  to  you  and 
I  am  glad  Mrs.  Fan  is  going  to  stay;  and  I  hear  that 
several  papers  have  reproduced  the  thunder  and  small 
beer  articles;  and  I  thank  you  for  your  letter;  and  pray 
the  best  prayers  I  am  worth  for  you,  and  your  husband, 
and  child,  my  dear  lady. 

W.  M.  T. 

.[^Et.  40] 

To  THE  SAME 

[TO  THE  ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS;  BOZJ 

1851. 

I  have  no  news  to  give  for  these  two  days,  but  I  have 
been  busy  and  done  nothing.  Virtue  doesn't  agree  with 
me  well,  and  a  very  little  domestic  roseleaf  rumpled  puts 
me  off  my  work  for  the  day.  Yesterday  it  was,  I  forget 
what;  to-day  it  has  been  the  same  reason;  and  lo!  Satur- 
day cometh  and  nothing  is  done.  .  .  .  We  have  been  to 
the  Zoological  Gardens  this  fine  day  and  amused  ourselves 
in  finding  likenesses  to  our  friends  in  many  of  the  ani- 
mals. Thank  Evns!  both  of  the  girls  have  plenty  of  fun 
and  humour;  your's  ought  to  have,  from  both  sides  of  the 
house, — and  a  deal  of  good  besides,  if  she  do  but  possess 
a  mixture  of  William's  disposition  and  yours.  He  will 
be  immensely  tender  over  the  child  when  nobody's  by,  I 
am  sure  of  that.  No  father  knows  for  a  few  months  what 
it  is,  but  they  learn  afterwards.  It  strikes-  me  I  have 
made  these  statements  before. 

We  had  a  dull  dinner  at  Lady 's,  a  party  of • 

chiefly;  and  O!  such  a  pretty  one,  blue  eyes,  gold  hair, 
alabaster  shoulders,  and  such  a  splendid  display  of  them. 
Venables  was  there,  very  shy  and  grand  looking — how 
kind  that  man  has  always  been  to  me ! — and  a  Mr.  Simeon 
of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  an  Oxford  man,  who  won  my  heart 
by  praising  certain  parts  of  Vanity  Fair  which  people 
won't  like.  Carlyle  glowered  in  in  the  evening;  and  a 
man  who  said  a  good  thing.  Speaking  of  a  stupid  place 
at  the  sea-side,  Sandwich  I  think,  somebody  said,  "Can't 


41]         WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY  359 

you  have  any  fun  there?"  "O!  yes,"  Corry  said,  "but 
you  must  take  it  with  you."  A  nice  speech  I  think,  not 
only  witty  but  indicating  a  gay  cheerful  heart.  I  intend 
to  try  after  that;  we  intend  to  try  after  that;  and  by 
action  and  so  forth  get  out  of  that  morbid  dissatisfied 
condition.  Now  I  am  going  to  dress  to  dine  with  Lord 
Holland;  my  servant  comes  in  to  tell  me  it  is  time.  He 
is  a  capital  man,  an  attentive,  alert,  silent,  plate-cleaning, 
intelligent  fellow;  I  hope  we  shall  go  on  well  together, 
and  that  I  shall  be  able  to  afford  him.  .  .  . 

Boz  is  capital  this  month;  some  very  neat  pretty  natu- 
ral writing  indeed,  better  than  somebody  else's  again. 
By  Jove,  he  is  a  clever  fellow,  and  somebody  else  must 
and  shall  do  better.  Quiet,  pleasant  dinner  at  Lord 
Holland's;  leg  of  mutton  and  that  sort  of  thing;  home 
to  bed  at  10.30,  and  to-morrow  to  work  really  and  truly. 
Let  me  hear,  please,  that  you  are  going  on  well  and  I 
shall  go  on  all  the  better. 


To  EDWARD  FITZGERALD 
["BEST  AND  OLDEST  FRIEND"] 

October  27,  1852. 
My  dearest  old  Friend, — 

I  mustn't  go  away  without  shaking  your  hand,  and  say- 
ing Farewell  and  God  Bless  you.  If  anything  happens 
to  me,  you  by  these  presents  must  get  ready  the  Book 
of  Ballads  which  you  like,  and  which  I  had  not  time 
to  prepare  before  embarking  on  this  voyage.  And  I 
should  like  my  daughters  to  remember  that  you  are  the 
best  and  oldest  friend  their  Father  ever  had,  and  that 
you  would  act  as  such:  as  my  literary  executor  and  so 
forth.  My  Books  would  yield  a  something  as  copyrights: 
and,  should  anything  occur,  I  have  commissioned  friends 
in  good  place  to  get  a  Pension  for  my  poor  little  wife. 
.  .  .  Does  not  this  sound  gloomily?  Well:  who  knows 
what  Fate  is  in  store :  and  I  feel  not  at  all  downcast,  but 
very  grave  and  solemn  just  at  the  brink  of  a  great  voyage. 

I  shall  send  you  a  copy  of  Esmond  to-morrow  or  so 
which  you  shall  yawn  over  when  you  are  inclined.  But 


360  WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY         [^Et.  41 

the  great  comfort  I  have  in  thinking  about  iny  dear  old 
boy  is  that  recollection  of  our  youth  when  we  loved  each 
other  as  I  do  now  while  I  write  Farewell. 

Laurence  has  done  a  capital  head  of  me  ordered  by 
Smith  the  Publisher:  and  I  have  ordered  a  copy  and 
Lord  Ashburton  another.  If  Smith  gives  me  this  one,  I 
shall  send  the  copy  to  you.  I  care  for  you  as  you  know, 
and  always  like  to  think  that  I  am  fondly  and  affection- 
ately yours 

W.  M.  T. 

I  sail  from  Liverpool  on  Saturday  Morning  by  the 
Canada  for  Boston. 


41] 

To  MRS.  BROOKFIELD 
[LECTURES  ;  TABLE-TIPPING] 

CLARENDON  HOTEL,  NEW  YORK, 

Tuesday,  23  Dec.,  [1852.] 
My  dear  Lady, — 

I  send  you  a  little  line  and  shake  your  hand  across  the 
water.  God  bless  you  'and  yours.  .  .  . 

The  passage  is  nothing,  now  it  is  over;  I  am  rather 
ashamed  of  gloom  and  disquietude  about  such  a  trifling 
journey.  I  have  made  scores  of  new  acquaintances  and 
lighted  on  my  legs  as  usual.  I  didn't  expect  to  like 
people  as  I  do,  but  am  agreeably  disappointed  and  find 
many  most  pleasant  companions,  natural  and  good;  natu- 
ral and  well  read  and  well  bred  too;  and  I  suppose  am 
none  the  worse  pleased  because  everybody  has  read  all 
my  books  and  praises  my  lectures;  (I  preach  in  a  Uni- 
tarian Church,  and  the  parson  comes  to  hear  me.  His 
name  is  Mr.  Bellows;  it  isn't  a  pretty  name),  and  there 
are  2000  people  nearly  who  come,  and  the  lectures  are 
so  well  liked  that  it  is  probable  I  shall  do  them  over 
again.  So  really  there  is  a  chance  of  making  a  pretty 
little  sum  of  money  for  old  age,  imbecility,  and  those 
young  ladies  afterwards. 

Had  Lady  Ashburton  told  you  of  the  moving  tables? 
Try,  six  or  seven  of  you,  a  wooden  table  without  brass 


.Et.  41]         WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY  361 

castors ;  sit  round  it,  lay  your  hands  flat  on  it,  not  touch- 
ing each  other,  and  in  half  an  hour  or  so  perhaps  it  will 
begin  to  turn  round  and  round.  It  is  the  most  wonderful 
thing,  but  I  have  tried  twice  in  vain  since  I  saw  it  and 
did  it  at  Mr.  Bancroft's.  I  have  not  been  into  fashion- 
able society  yet,  what  they  call  the  upper  ten  thousand 
here,  but  have  met  very  likeable  of  the  lower  sort.  On 
Sunday  I  went  into  the  country,  and  there  was  a  great 
rosy  jolly  family  of  sixteen  or  eighteen  people,  round  a 
great  tea-table;  and  the  lady  of  the  house  told  me  to 
make  myself  at  home — remarking  my  bashfulness,  you 
know — and  said,  with  a  jolly  face,  and  twinkling  of  her 
little  eyes,  "Lord  bless  you,  we  know  you  all  to  pieces!" 
and  there  was  sitting  by  me  O !  such  a  pretty  girl,  the 
very  picture  of  Rubens's  second  wife,  and  face  and  figure. 
Most  of  the  ladies,  all  except  this  family,  are  as  lean  as 
greyhounds;  they  dress  prodigiously  fine,  taking  for  their 
models  the  French  actresses,  I  think,  of  the  Boulevard 
theatres. 

Broadway  is  miles  upon  miles  long,  a  rush  of  life  such 
as  I  never  have  seen;  not  so  full  as  the  Strand,  but  so 
rapid.  The  houses  are  always  being  torn  down  and  built 
up  again,  the  railroad  cars  drive  slap  into  [the]  midst  of 
the  city.  There  are  barricades  and  scaffoldings  banging 
everywhere.  I  have  not  been  into  a  house  except  the  fat 
country  one,  but  something  new  is  being  done  to  it,  and 
the  hammerings  are  clattering  in  the  passage,  or  a  wall, 
or  steps  are  down,  or  the  family  is  going  to  move.  No- 
body is  quiet  here,  no*  more  am  I.  The  rush  and  rest- 
lessness pleases  me,  and  I  like,  for  a  little,  the  dash  of 
the  stream.  I  am  not  received  as  a  god,  which  I  like  too. 
There  is  one  paper  which  goes  on  every  morning  saying 
I  am  a  snob,  and  I  don't  say  no.  Six  people  were  reading 
it  at  breakfast  this  morning,  and  the  man  opposite  me 
popped  it  under  the  table  cloth.  But  the  other  papers 
roar  with  approbation.  "Criez,  beuglez  01  Journaux." 
They  don't  understand  French  though;  that  bit  of  Be- 
ranger  will  hang  fire.  Do  you  remember  Jete  sur  cette 
loule  &c.  ?  Yes,  my  dear  sister  remembers.  God  Almighty 
bless  her,  and  all  she  loves. 

I  may  write  next  Saturday  to  Chesham  Place;  you  will 
go  and  carry  my  love  to  those  ladies,  won't  you?  Here 


362  WILLIAM   M.    THACKEKAY         [,Et.  41 

comes  in  a  man  with  a  paper  I  hadn't  seen;  I  must  cut 
out  a  bit  just  as  the  actors  do,  but  then  I  think  you  will 
like  it,  and  that  is  why  I  do  it.  There  was  a  very  rich 
biography  about  me  in  one  of  the  papers  the  other  day, 
with  an  account  of  a  servant,  maintained  in  the  splendour 
of  his  menial  decorations.  —  Poor  old  John  whose  picture 
is  in  Pendennis.  And  I  have  filled  my  paper,  and  I 
shake  my  dear  lady's  hand  across  the  roaring  sea,  and 
I  know  that  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that  I  prosper 
and  that  I  am  well,  and  that  I  am  yours 

W.  M.  T. 


.  41] 

To  THE  SAME 
["ACTING  THE  LION  BUSINESS";  BEATRIX] 

Direct  Clarendon  Hotel  New  York. 

PHILADELPHIA, 
21  to  23  January,   [1853.] 

My  dear  lady's  kind  sad  letter  gave  me  pleasure,  mel- 
ancholy as  it  was.  .  .  . 

At  present,  I  incline  to  come  to  England  in  June  or 
July  and  get  ready  a  new  set  of  lectures,  and  bring  them 
back  with  me.  That  second  course  will  enable  me  to  pro- 
vide for  the  children  and  their  mother  finally  and  satis- 
factorily, and  my  mind  will  be  easier  after  that,  and  I 
can  sing  Nunc  Dimittis  without  faltering.  There  is 
money-making  to  try  at,  to  be  sure,  and  ambition,  —  I 
mean  in  public  life;  perhaps  that  might  interest  a  man, 
but  not  novels,  nor  lectures,  nor  fun,  any  more.  I  don't 
seem  to  care  about  these  any  more,  or  for  praise,  or  for 
abuse,  or  for.  reputation  of  that  kincl.  That  literary  play 
is  played  out,  and  the  puppets  'going  to  be  locked  up  for 
good  and  all. 

Does  this  melancholy  come  from  the  circumstance  that 
I  have  been  out  to  dinner  and  supper  every  night  this 
week  ?  O  !  I  am  tired  of  shaking  hands  with  people,  and 
acting  the  lion  business  night  after  night.  Everybody 
is  introduced  and  shakes  hands.  I  know  thousands  of 
Colonels,  professors,  editors,  and  what  not,  and  walk  the 
streets  guiltily,  knowing  that  I  don't  know  'em,  and 
trembling  lest  the  man  opposite  to  me  is  one  of  my 


Mt.  41]         WILLIAM    M.    THACKERAY  363 

friends  of  the  day  before.  I  believe  I  am  popular,  except 
at  Boston  among  the  newspaper  men  who  fired  into  me, 
but  a  great  favorite  with  the  monde  there  and  elsewhere. 
Here  in  Philadelphia  it  is  all  praise  and  kindness.  Do 
you  know  there  are  500,000  people  in  Philadelphia?  I 
daresay  you  had  no  idea  thereof,  and  smile  at  the  idea 
of  there  being  a  monde  here  and  at  Boston  and  New 
York.  Early  next  month  I  begin  at  Washington  and 
Baltimore,  then  D.  V.  to  New  Orleans,  back  to  New  York 
by  Mississippi  and  Ohio,  if  the  steamers  don't  blow  up, 
and  if  they  do,  you  know  I  am  easy.  What  a,  weary, 
weary  letter  I  am  writing  to  you.  .  .  .  Have  you  heard 
that  I  have  found  Beatrix  at  New  York?  I  have  basked 
in  her  bright  eyes,  but  Ah,  me!  I  don't  care  for  her,  and 
shall  hear  of  her  marrying  a  New  York  buck  with  a 
feeling  of  perfect  pleasure.  She  is  really  as  like  Beatrix, 
as  that  fellow  William  and  I  met  was  like  Costigan.  She 
has  a  dear  woman  of  a  mother  upwards  of  fifty-five,  whom 
I  like  the  best,  I  think,  and  think  the  handsomest, — a 
sweet  lady.  What  a  comfort  those  dear  Elliots  are  to 
me;  I  have  had  but  one  little  letter  from  J.  E.,  full  of 
troubles  too.  She  says  you  have  been  a  comfort  to  them 
too.  I  can't  live  without  the  tenderness  of  some  woman; 
and  expect  when  I  am  sixty  I  shall  be  marrying  a  girl 
of  eleven  or  twelve,  innocent,  barley-sugar-loving,  in  a 
pinafore. 

They  came  and  interrupted  me  as  I  was  writing  this, 
two  days  since;  and  I  have  been  in  public  almost  ever 
since.  The  lectures  are  enormously  suivies  and  I  read 
at  the  rate  of  a  pound  a  minute  nearly.  The  curious 
thing  is,  that  I  think  I  improve  in  the  reading ;  at  certain 
passages  a  sort  of  emotion  springs  up;  I  begin  to  under- 
stand how  actors  feel  affected  over  and  over  again  at 
the  same  passages  of  the  play; — they  are  affected  off  the 
stage  too;  I  hope  I  shan't  be. 

Crowe  is  my  immensest  comfort;  I  could  not  live  with- 
out someone  to  take  care  of  me,  and  he  is  the  kindest 
and  most  affectionate  henchman  ever  man  had.  I  went 
to  see  Pierce  .  Butler  yesterday,  Fanny's  husband.  I 
thought  she  would  like  me  to  see  the  children  if  I 
could,  and  I  asked  about  them  particularly,  but  they 
were  not  shown.  I  thought  of  good  Adelaide  coming  to 


364  WILLIAM   M.    THACKERAY         [^Et.  44 

sing  to  you  when  you  were  ill.  I  may  like  everyone 
who  is  kind  to  you,  mayn't  I?  ...  What  for  has  Lady 
Ashburton  never  written  to  me?  I  am  writing  this  with 
a  new  gold  pen  in  such  a  fine  gold  case.  An  old  gentle- 
man gave  it  to  me  yesterday,  a  white-headed  old  philoso- 
pher and  political  economist.  There's  something  simple 
in  the  way  these  kind  folks  regard  a  man;  they  read  our 
books  as  if  we  were  Fielding,  and  so  forth.  The  other 
night  some  m^n  were  talking  of  Dickens  and  Bulwer  as 
if  they  were  equal  to  Shakespeare,  and  I  was  pleased  to 
find  myself  pleased  at  hearing  them  praised.  The  prettiest 
girl  in  Philadelphia,  poor  soul,  has  read  Vanity  Fair 
twelve  times.  I  paid  her  a  great  big  compliment  yester- 
day, about  her  good  looks  of  course,  and  she  turned 
round  delighted  to  her  friend  and  said,  "Ai  most  tallut" 
— that  is  something  like  the  pronunciation.  Beatrix  has 
an  adorable  pronunciation,  and  uses  little  words,  which 
are  much  better  than  wit.  And  what  do  you  think? 
One  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  Boston  is  to  be  put  under 
my  charge  to  go  to  a  marriage  at  Washington  next  week. 
We  are  to  travel  together  all  the  way  alone— xmly,  only, 
I'm  not  going.  Young  people  when  they  are  engaged 
here,  make  tours  alone;  fancy  what  the  British  Mrs. 
Grundy  would  say  at  such  an  idea ! 

There  was  a  young  Quakeress  at  the  lecture  last  night, 
listening  about  Fielding.  Lord!  Lord!  how  pretty  she 
was!  There  are  hundreds  of  such  everywhere,  airy  look- 
ing little  beings,  with  magnolia — no,  not  magnolia,  what 
is  that  white  flower  you  make  bouquets  of,  Camilla  or 
camelia — complexions,  and  lasting  not  much  longer.  .  .  . 
God  bless  you  and  your  children ;  write  to  me  sometimes, 
and  farewell. 


.  44] 

To  WILLIAM  B.  REED 
["WHAT  CAN  THE  MAN  MEAN?"] 

BALTIMORE,  Jan.  16,  1856. 
My  dear  Reed, — 

Your  letter  of  the  9th,  with  one  from  Boston  of  the 
8th,  was  given  to  me  last  night  when  I  came  home.     In 


Mt.  44]        WILLIAM   M.    THACKERAY  365 

what  possible  snow-drift  have  they  been  lying  torpid? 
One  hundred  thanks  for  your  goodness  in  the  lecture, 
and  all  other  matters;  and  if  I  can  find  the  face  to  read 
those  printed  lectures  over  again,  I'll  remember  your 
good  advice.  That  splendid  crowd  on  the  last  lecture 
night  I  knew  would  make  our  critical  friend  angry.  I 
have  not  seen  the  last  article,  of  course,  and  don't  intend 
to  look  for  it.  And  as  I  was  reading  the  George  III 
lecture  here  on  Monday  night,  could  not  help  asking 
myself,  "What  can  the  man  mean  by  saying  that  I  am 
uncharitable,  unkindly — that  I  sneer  at  virtue?"  and  so 
forth.  My  own  conscience  being  pretty  clear,  I  can  re- 
ceive the  "Bulletin's"  displeasure  with  calmness — remem- 
bering how  I  used  to  lay  about  me  in  my  own  youthful 
days,  and  how  I  generally  took  a  good  tall  mark  to 
hit  at.  '  ; 

Wicked  weather,  and  an  opera  company  which  per- 
formed on  the  two  first  lecture  nights  here,  made  the 
audiences  rather  thin ;  but  they  fetched  up  at  the  third 
lecture,  and  to-night  is  the  last;  after  which  I  go  to 
Richmond,  then  to  go  further  south,  from  Charlestown 
to  Havannah*  and  New  Orleans;  perhaps  to  turn  back 
and  try  westward,  where  I  know  there  is  a  great  crop 
of  dollars  to  be  reaped.  But  to  be  snow-bound  in  my 
infirm  condition!  I  might  never  get  out  of  the  snow 
alive. 

I  go  to  Washington  to-morrow  for  a  night.  I  was 
there  and  dined  with  Crampton  on  Saturday.  He  was 
in  good  force  and  spirits,  and  I  saw  no  signs  of  packing- 
up  or  portmanteaus  in  the  hall. 

I  send  my  best  regards  to  Mrs.  Reed  and  your  sister- 
in-law,  and  Lewis  and  his  kind  folks,  and  to  Mac's 
whisky-punch,  which  gave  me  no  headache:  I'm  very 
sorry  it  treated  you  so  unkindly. — Always  yours,  dear 
Reed. 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

*  Savannah. 


366  CHARLES    DICKENS  [JEt.  29 

[^Et.44] 

To  WILLIAM  B.  REED 
[SUDDEN  RETURN  TO  ENGLAND] 

April  24,  [1856]. 
My  dear  Reed, — 

When  you  get  this,  .  .  .  remummum-ember  me  to 
kick-kick-kind  ffu-fffu-ffriends  ...  a  sudden  resolution 
— to — mummum-mor-row  ...  in  the  Bu-bu-baltic. 

Good-bye,  my  dear  kind  friend,  and  all  kind  friends  in 
Philadelphia.  I  didn't  think  of  going  away  when  I  left 
home  this  morning;  but  it's  the  best  way. 

I  think  it  is  best  to  send  back  25  per  cent  to  poor* 
.  Will  you  kindly  give  him  the  enclosed;  and  de- 
pend on  it  I  shall  go  and  see  Mrs.  Best  when  I  go  to 
London,  and  tell  her  all  about  you.  My  heart  is  un- 
commonly heavy:  and  I  am  yours  gratefully  and  affec- 
tionately. 

W.  M.  T. 

[^Et.29]  CHARLES    DICKENS 

1812-1870 

To  WASHINGTON  IRVING 
[ENTHUSIASTIC  PRAISE] 

[1841.] 
My  dear  Sir, — 

There  is  no  man  in  the  world  who  could  have  given 
me  the  heartfelt  pleasure  you  have,  by  your  kind  note 
of  the  thirteenth  of  last  month.  There  is  no  living 
writer,  and  there  are  very  few  among  the  dead,  whose 
approbation  I  should  feel  so  proud  to  earn.  And  with 
everything  you  have  written  upon  my  shelves,  and  in 
my  thoughts,  and  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  I  may  honestly 
and  truly  say  so.  If  you  could  know  how  earnestly  I 
write  this,  you  would  be  glad  to  read  it — as  I  hope  you 
will  be,  faintly  guessing  at  the  warmth  of  the  hand  I 
autobiogfaphically  hold  out  to  you  over  the  broad 
Atlantic. 

*  Who  had  managed  the  lectures;  the  last  of  them  were  not  financially 
successful. 


Mi.  29]  CHARLES   DICKENS  367 

I  wish  I  could  find  in  your  welcome  letter  some  hint 
of  an  intention  to  visit  England.  I  can't.  I  have  held 
it  at  arm's  length,  and  taken  a  bird's-eye  view  of  it, 
after  reading  it  a  great  many  times,  but  there  is  no 
greater  encouragement  in  it  this  way  than  on  a  micro- 
scopic inspection.  I  should  love  to  go  with  you — as  I 
have  gone,  God  knows  how  often — into  Little  Britain,  and 
Eastcheap,  and  Green  Arbour  Court,  and  Westminster 
Abbey.  I  should  like  to  travel  with  you,  outside  the  last 
of  the  coaches  down  to  Bracebridge  Hall.  It  would  make 
my  heart  glad  to  compare  notes  with  you  about  that 
shabby  gentleman  in  the  oilcloth  hat  and  red  nose,  who 
sat  in  the  nine  -  cornered  back  -  parlor  of  the  Mason's 
Arlns;  and  about  Robert  Preston  and  the  tallow-chan- 
dler's widow,  whose  sitting-room  is  second  nature  to  me; 
and  about  all  those  delightful  places  and  people  that  I 
used  to  walk  about  and  dream  of  in  the  daytime,  when 
a  very  small  and  not  over-particularly-t^ken-care-of  boy. 
I  have  a  good  deal  to  say,  too,  about  that  dashing  Alonzo 
de  Ojeda,  that  you  can't  help  being  fonder  of  than  you 
ought  to  be;  and  much  to  hear  concerning  Moorish 
legend,  and  poor  unhappy  Bobadil.  Diedrich  Knicker- 
bocker I  have  worn  to  death  in  my  pocket,  and  yet  I 
should  show  you  his  mutilated  carcass  with  a  joy  past 
all  expression. 

I  have  been  so  accustomed  to  associate  you  with  my 
pleasantest  and  happiest  thoughts,  and  with  my  leisure 
hours,  that  I  rush  at  once  into  full  confidence  with  you, 
and  fall,  as  it  were  naturally  and  by  the  very  laws  of 
gravity,  into  your  open  arms.  Questions  come  thronging 
to  my  pen  as  to  the  lips  of  people  who  meet  after  long 
hoping  to  do  so.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  first  or  what 
to  leave  unsaid,  and  am  constantly  disposed  to  break  off 
and  tell  you  again  how  glad  I  am  this  moment  has 
arrived. 

My  dear  Washington  Irving,  I  cannot  thank  you 
enough  for  your  cordial  and  generous  praise,  or  tell  you 
what  deep  and  lasting  gratification  it  has  given  to  me. 
I  hope  to  have  many  letters  from  you,  and  to  exchange 
a  frequent  correspondence.  I  send  this  to  say  so.  After 
the  first  two  or  three  I  shall  settle  down  into  a  con- 
nected style,  and  become  gradually  rational. 


368  CHAKLES    DICKENS  [Mt.  30 

You  know  what  the  feeling  is,  after  having  written  a 
letter,  sealed  it,  and  sent  it  off.  I  shall  picture  your 
reading  this,  and  answering  it  before  it  has  lain  one 
night  in  the  post-office.  Ten  to  one  that  before  the 
fastest  packet  could  reach  New  York  I  shall  be  writing 
again. 

Do  you  suppose  the  post-office  clerks  care  to  receive 
letters?  I  have  my  doubts.  They  get  into  a  dreadful 
habit  of  indifference.  A  postman,  I  imagine,  is  quite 
callous.  Conceive  his  delivering  one  to  himself,  without 
being  startled  by  a  preliminary  double  knock! 

Always  your  faithful  Friend, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 
[  JEt.  30] 

To  W.  C.  MACREADY 

["THIS    IS    NOT    THE    REPUBLIC    I    CAME    TO    SEE*'] 

BALTIMORE,  Twenty-second  March,  1842. 
My  dear  Friend, — 

I  beg  your  pardon,  but  you  were  speaking  of  rash  leaps 
at  hasty  conclusions.  Are  you  quite  sure  you  designed 
that  remark  for  me  ?  Have  you  not,  in  the  hurry  of 
correspondence,  slipped  a  paragraph  into  my  letter  which 
belongs  of  right  to  somebody  else?  When  did  you  ever 
find  me  leap  at  wrong  conclusions?  I  pause  for  a  reply. 

Pray,  sir,  did  you  ever  find  me  admiring  Mr. ? 

On  the  contrary,  did  you  never  hear  of  my  protesting 
through  good,  better,  and  best  report  that  he  was  not 
an  open  or  a  candid  man,  and  would  one  day,  beyond  all 
doubt,  displease  you  by  not  being  so?  I  pause  again 
for  a  reply. 

Are  you  quite  sure,  Mr.  Macready — and  I  address  my- 
self to  you  with  the  sternness  of  a  man  in  the  pit — are 
you  quite  sure,  sir,  that  you  do  not  view  America  through 
the  pleasant  mirage  which  often  surrounds  a  thing  that 
has  been,  but  not  a  thing  that  is?  Are  you  quite  sure 
that  when  you  were  here  you  relished  it  as  well  as  you 
do  now-  when  you  look  back  upon  it  ?  The  early  spring 
birds,  Mr.  Macready,  do  sing  in  the  groves  that  you  were, 
very  often,  not  over  well  pleased  with  many  of  the  new 
country's  social  aspects.  Are  the  birds  to  be  trusted? 
Again  I  pause  for  a  reply. 


^Et.  30]  CHAELES    DICKEXS  369 

My  dear  Macready,  I  desire  to  be  so  honest  and  just 
to  those  who  have  so  enthusiastically  and  earnestly  wel- 
comed me,  that  I  burned  the  last  letter  I  wrote  to  you — 
even  to  you  to  whom  I  would  speak  as  to  myself — rather 
than  let  it  come  with  anything  that  might  seem  like  an 
ill-considered  word  of  disappointment.  I  preferred  that 
you  should  think  me  neglectful  (if  you  could  imagine 
anything  so  wild)  rather  than  I  should  do  wrong  in  this 
respect.  Still  it  is  of  no  use.  I  am  disappointed.  This 
is  not  the  republic  I  came  to  see ;  this  is  not  the  republic 
of  my  imagination.  I  infinitely  prefer  a  liberal  mon- 
archy— even  with  its  sickening  accompaniments  of  court 
circulars — to  such  a  government  as  this.  The  more  I 
think  of  its  use  and  strength,  the  poorer  and  more 
trifling  in  a  thousand  aspects  it  appears  to  my  eyes.  In 
everything  of  which  it  has  made  a  boast — excepting  its 
education  of  the  people  and  its  care  for  poor  children — 
it  sinks  immeasurably  below  the  level  I  had  placed  it 
upon;  and  England,  even  England,  bad  and  faulty  as  the 
old  land  is,  and  miserable  as  millions  of  her  people  are, 
rises  in  the  comparison. 

You  live  here,  Macready,  as  I  have  sometimes  heard 
you  imagining!  You!  Loving  you  with  all  my  heart 
and  soul,  and  knowing  what  your  disposition  really  is,  I 
would  not  condemn  you  to  a  year's  residence  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic  for  any  money.  Ereedom  of-  opinion! 
Where  is  it?  I  see  a  press  more  mean,  and  paltry,  and 
silly,  and  disgraceful  than  any  country  I  ever  knew.  If 
that  is  its  standard,  here  it  is.  But  I  speak  of  Bancroft, 
and  am  advised  to  be  silent  on  that  subject,  for  he  is 
"a  black  sheep — a  Democrat."  I  speak  of  Bryant,  and 
am  entreated  to  be  more  careful,  for  the  same  reason. 
I  speak  of  international  copyright,  and  am  implored  not 
to  ruin  myself  outright.  I  speak  of  Miss  Martineau, 
and  all  parties — Slave  Upholders  and  Abolitionists,  Whigs, 
Tyler  Whigs,  and  Democrats,  shower  down  upon  me  a 
perfect  cataract  of  abuse.  "But  what  has  she  done? 
Surely  she  praised  America  enough !"  "Yes,  but  she  told 
us  of  some  of  our  faults,  and  Americans  can't  bear  to 
be  told  of  their  faults.  Don't  split  on  that  rock,  Mr. 
Dickens,  don't  write  about  America;  we  are  so  very 
suspicious." 


.370  CHAKLES    DICKENS  [^Et.  30 

Freedom  of  opinion!  Macready,  if  I  had  been  born 
here  and  had  written  my  books  in  this  country,  pro- 
ducing them  with  no  stamp  of  approval  from  any  other 
land,  it  is  my  solemn  belief  that  I  should  have  lived  and 
died  poor,  unnoticed,  and  a  "black  sheep"  to  boot.  I 
never  was  more  convinced  of  anything  than  I  am  of  that. 

The  people  are  affectionate,  generous,  open-hearted, 
liospitable,  enthusiastic,  good-humoured,  polite  to  women, 
frank  and  candid  to  all  strangers,  anxious  to  oblige,  far 
less  prejudiced  than  they  have  been  described  to  be, 
frequently  polished  and  refined,  very  seldom  rude  or  dis- 
agreeable. I  have  made  a  great  many  friends  here,  even 
in  public  conveyances,  whom  I  have  been  truly  sorry  to 
part  from.  In  the  towns  I  have  formed  perfect  attach- 
ments. I  have  seen  none  of  that  greediness  and  in- 
decorousness  on  which  travellers  have  laid  so  much  em- 
phasis. I  have  returned  frankness  with  frankness;  met 
questions  not  intended  to  be  rude,  with  answers  meant 
to  be  satisfactory;  and  have  not  spoken  to  one  man, 
woman  or  child  of  any  degree  who  has  not  grown  posi- 
tively affectionate  before  we  parted.  In  the  respects  of 
not  being  left  alone,  and  of  being  horribly  disgusted  by 
tobacco  chewing  and  tobacco  spittle,  I  have  suffered  con- 
siderably. The  sight  of  slavery  in  Virginia,  the  hatred 
of  British  feeling  upon  the  subject,  and  the  miserable 
hints  of  the  impotent  indignation  of  the  South,  have 
pained  me  very  much !  on  the  last  head,  of  course,  I  have 
felt  nothing  but  a  mingled  pity  and  amusement;  on  the 
other,  sheer  distress.  But  however  much  I  like  the  in- 
gredients of  this  great  dish,  I  cannot  but  come  back  to 
the  point  upon  which  I  started,  and  say  that  the  dish 
itself  goes  against  the  grain  with  me,  and  that  I  don't 
like  it. 

You  know  that  I  am  truly  a  Liberal.  I  believe  I  have 
as  little  pride  as  most  men,  and  I  am  conscious  of  not  the 
smallest  annoyance  from  being  "hail  fellow  well  met" 
with  everybody.  I  have  not  had  greater  pleasure  in  the 
company  of  any  set  of  men  among  the  thousands  I  have 
received  than  in  that  of  the  carmen  of  Hertford,*  who 
presented  themselves  in  a  body  in  their  blue  frocks, 

*  Hartford,  Connecticut. 


Mt.  30]  CHAELES   DICKENS  371 

among  a  crowd  of  well-dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and 
bade  me  welcome  through  their  spokesman.  They  had 
all  read  my  books,  and  all  perfectly  understood  them. 
It  is  not  these  things  I  have  in  my  mind  when  I  say 
that  the  man  who  comes  to  this  country  a  Radical,  and 
goes  home  again  with  his  opinions  unchanged,  must  be 
a  Radical  on  reason,  sympathy,  and  reflection,  and  one 
who  has  so  well  considered  the  subject  that  he  has  no- 
chance  of  wavering. 

We  have  been  to  Boston,  Worcester,  Hertford,  New 
Haven,  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Washington,. 
Fredericksburgh,  Richmond,  and  back  to  Washington 
again.  The  premature  heat  of  the  weather  (it  was  eighty 
yesterday  in  the  shade)  and  Clay's  advice — how  you 
would  like  Clay! — have  made  us  determine  not  to  go  to 
Charleston;  but  having  got  to  Richmond,  I  think  I 
should  have  turned  back  under  any  circumstances.  We 
remain  at  Baltimore  for  two  days,  of  which  this  is  one; 
then  we  go  to  Harrisburgh.  Then  by  the  canal  boat  and 
the  railroad  over  the  Alleghany  Mountains  to  Pittsburgh, 
then  down  the  Ohio  to  Cincinnati,  then  to  Louisville,  and 
then  to  St.  Louis.  I  have  been  invited  to  a  public 
entertainment  in  every  town  I  have  entered,  and  have 
refused  them;  but  I  have  excepted  St.  Louis  as  the 
farthest  point  of  my  travels.  My  friends  there  have 
passed  some  resolutions  which  Forster  has,  and  will  show 
you.  From  St.  Louis  we  cross  to  Chicago,  traversing 
immense  prairies.  Thence  by  the  lakes  and  Detroit  to 
Buffalo,  and  so  to  Niagara.  A  run  into  Canada  follows 
of  course,  and  then — let  me  write  the  blessed  word  in 
capitals — we  turn  towards  HOME. 

Kate  has  written  to  Mrs.  Macready,  and  it  is  useless 
for  me  to  thank  you,  my  dearest  friend,  or  her,  for  your 
care  of  our  dear  children,  which  is  our  constant  theme  of 
discourse.  Forster  has  gladdened  our  hearts  with  his 
account  of  the  triumph  of  "Acis  and  Galatea,"  and  I 
am  anxiously  looking  for  news  of  the  tragedy.  Forrest 
breakfasted  with  us  at  Richmond  last  Saturday — he  was 
acting  there,  and  I  invited  him — and  he  spoke  very 
gratefully,  and  very  like  a  man,  of  your  kindness  to  him 
when  he  was  in  London. 

David  Colden  is  as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  lived ;  and 

• 
• 


372  CHARLES   DICKENS  [JSt.  36 

I  am  deeply  in  love  with  his  wife.  Indeed  we  have 
received  the  greatest  and  most  earnest  and  zealous  kind- 
ness from  the  whole  family,  and  quite  love  them  all. 
Do  you  remember  one  Greenhow,  whom  you  invited  to 
pass  some  days  with  you  at  the  hotel  on  the  Kaatskill 
Mountains?  He  is  translator  to  the  State  Office  at  Wash- 
ington, has  a  very  pretty  wife,  and  a  little  girl  of  five 
years  old.  We  dined  with  them,  and  had  a  very  pleas- 
ant day.  The  President  invited  me  -to  dinner,  but  I 
couldn't  stay  for  it.  I  had  a  private  audience,  however, 
and  we  attended  the  public  drawing-room  besides. 

Now,  don't  you  rush  at  the  quick  conclusion  that  I 
have  rushed  at  a  quick  conclusion.  Pray,  be  upon  your 
guard.  If  you  can  by  any  process  estimate  the  extent 
of  my  affectionate  regard  for  you,  and  the  rush  I  shall 
make  when  I  reach  London  to  take  you  by  your  true 
right  hand,  I  don't  object.  But  let  me  entreat  you  to  be 
very  careful  how  you  come  down  upon  the  sharpsighted 
individual  who  pens  these  words,  which  you  seem  to  me 
to  have  done  in  what  Willmott  would  call  "one  of  Mr. 
Macready's  rushes." 

I  am  ever,  my  dear  Macready, 

Your  faithful  Friend, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 
[Mt.  36] 

To  JOHN  FORSTER 

[IN   PRAISE   OF   THE   "LIFE   OF   GOLDSMITH"] 

DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE, 
Saturday,  Twenty-second  April,  1848. 
My  dear  Forster, — 

I  finished  Goldsmith  yesterday,  after  dinner,  having 
read  it  from  the  first  page  to  the  last  with  the  greatest 
care  and  attention. 

As  a  picture  of  the  time,  I  really  think  it  impossible 
to  give  it  too  much  praise.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  the 
very  essence  of  all  about  the  time  that  I  have  ever  seen 
in  biography  or  fiction,  presented  in  most  wise  and  hu- 
mane lights,  and  in  a  thousand  new  and  just  aspects 
I  have  never  liked  Johnson  half  so  well.  Nobody's  con 
tempt  for  Boswell  ought  to  be  capable  of  increase,  but 
I  have  never  seen  him  in  my  mind's  eye  half  so  plainly. 


Mt.  36]  CHARLES    DICKENS  373 

The  introduction  of  him  is  quite  a  masterpiece.  I 
should  point  to  that,  if  I  didn't  know  the  author,  as 
being  done  by  somebody  with  a  remarkably  vivid  con- 
ception of  what  he  narrated,  and  a  most  admirable  and 
fanciful  power  of  communicating  it  to  another.  All 
about  Reynolds  is  charming:  and  the  first  account  of 
the  Literary  Club  and  of  Beauclerc  as  excellent  a  piece 
of  description  as  ever  I  read  in  my  life.  But  to  read 
the  book  is  to  be  in  the  time.  It  lives  again  in  as  fresh 
and  lively  a  manner  as  if  it  were  presented  on  an  im- 
possibly good  stage  by  the  very  best  actors  that  ever 
lived,  or  by  the  real  actors  come  out  of  their  graves 
on  purpose. 

And  as  to  Goldsmith  himself,  and  his  life,  and  the 
tracing  of  it  out  in  his  own  writings,  and  the  manful 
and  dignified  assertion  of  him  without  any  sobs,  whines, 
or  convulsions  of  any  sort,  it  is  throughout  a  noble 
achievement,  of  which,  apart  from  any  private  and  per- 
sonal affection  for  you,  I  think  (and  really  believe)  I 
should  feel  proud,  as  one  who  had  no  indifferent  percep- 
tion of  these  books  of  his — to  the  best  of  my  remem- 
brance— when  little  more  than  a  child.  I  was  a  little 
afraid  in  the  beginning,  when  he  committed  those  very 
discouraging  imprudences,  that  you  were  going  to  cham- 
pion him  somewhat  indiscriminately;  but  I  very  soon 
got  over  that  fear,  and  found  reason  in  every  page  to 
admire  the  sense,  calmness,  and  moderation  with  which 
you  made  the  love  and  admiration  of  the  reader  cluster 
about  him  from  his  youth,  and  strengthen  with  his 
strength — and  weakness  too,  which  is  better  still. 

I  don't  quite  agree  with  you  in  two  small  respects. 
First,  I  question  very  much  whether  it  would  have  been 
a  good  'thing  for  every  great  man  to  have  had  his  Bos- 
well,  inasmuch  that  I  think  that  two  Boswells,  or  three 
at  most,  would  have  made  great  men  extraordinarily 
false,  and  would  have  set  them  on  always  playing  a  part, 
and  would  have  made  distinguished  people  about  them 
for  ever  restless  and  distrustful.  I  can  imagine  a  suc- 
cession of  Boswells  bringing  about  a  tremendous  state 
of  falsehood  in  society,  and  playing  the  very  devil  with 
confidence  and  friendship.  Secondly,  I  cannot  help  ob- 
jecting to  that  practice  (begun,  I  think,  or  greatly  en- 


374  CHAELES   DICKENS  [^Et.  36 

larged  by  Hunt)  of  italicising  lines  and  words  and  whole 
passages  in  extracts,  without  some  very  special  reason 
indeed.  It  does  appear  to  be  a  kind  of  assertion  of  the 
editor  over  the  reader — almost  over  the  author  himself — 
which  grates  upon  me.  The  author  might  almost  as  well 
do  it  himself  to  my  thinking,  as  a  disagreeable  thing; 
and  it  is  such  a  strong  contrast  to  the  modest,  quiet, 
tranquil  beauty  of  "The  Deserted  Village,"  for  instance, 
that  I  would  almost  as  soon  hear  "the  town  crier"  speak 
the  lines.  The  practice  always  reminds  me  of  a  man 
seeing  a  beautiful  view,  and  not  thinking  how  beautiful 
it  is  half  so  much  as  what  he  shall  say  about  it. 

In  that  picture  at  the  close  of  the  third  book  (a  most 
beautiful  one)  of  Goldsmith  sitting  looking  out  of  win- 
dow at  the  Temple  trees,  you  speak  of  the  "gray-eyed" 
rooks.  Are  you  sure  they  are  "gray-eyed"?  The  raven's 
eye  is  a  deep  lustrous  black,  and  so,  I  suspect,  is  the 
rook's,  except  when  the  light  shines  full  into  it. 

I  have  reserved  for  a  closing  word — though  I  don't 
mean  to  be  eloquent  about  it,  being  far  too  much  in 
earnest — the  admirable  manner  in  which  the  case  of  the 
literary  man  is  stated  throughout  this  book.  It  is  splen- 
did. I  don't  believe  that  any  book  was  ever  written,  or 
anything  ever  done  or  said,  half  so  conducive  to  the 
dignity  and  honour  of  literature  as  "The  Life  and  Ad- 
ventures of  Oliver  Goldsmith,"  by  J.  F.,  of  the  Inner 
Temple.  The  gratitude  of  every  man  who  is  content  to 
rest  his  station  and  claims  quietly  on  literature,  and  to 
make  no  feint  of  living  by  anything  else,  is  your  due 
for  evermore.  I  have  often  said,  here  and  there,  when 
you  have  been  at  work  upon  the  book,  that  I  was  sure  it 
would  be;  and  I  shall  insist  on  that  debt  being  due  to 
you  (though  there  will  be  no  need  for  insisting  about  it) 
as  long  as  I  have  any  tediousness  and  obstinacy  to  be- 
stow on  anybody.  Lastly,  I  never  will  hear  the  biography 
compared  with  Boswell's  except  under  vigorous  protest. 
For  I  do  say  that  it  is  mere  folly  to  put  into  opposite 
scales  a  book,  however  amusing  and  curious,  written  by 
an  unconscious  coxcomb  like  that,  and  one  which  surveys 
and  grandly  understands  the  characters  of  all  the  illus- 
trious company  that  move  in  it. 

My  dear  Forster,  I  cannot  sufficiently  say  how  proud 


^Et.  39]  CHAELES   DICKENS  375 

I  am  of  what  you  have  done,  or  how  sensible  I  am  of 
being  so  tenderly  connected  with  it.  When  I  look  over 
this  note,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  said  no  part  of  what  I 
think;  and  yet  if  I  were  to  write  another  I  should  say 
no  more,  for  I  can't  get  it  out.  I  desire  no  better  for 
my  fame,  when  my  personal  dustiness  shall  be  past  the 
control  of  my  love  of  order,  than  such  a  biographer  and 
such  a  critic.  And  again  I  say,  most  solemnly,  that 
literature  in  England  has  never  had,  and  probably  never 
will  have,  such  a  champion  as  you  are,  in  right  of  this 
book. 

Ever  affectionately, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 
[^Et.  39] 

To  HENRY  AUSTIN 
["TUMBLING  OVER  WORKMEN";  A  WRECK] 

BROADSTAIRS, 

Monday,  Eighth  September,  1851. 
My  dear  Henry, — 

Your  letter,  received  this  morning,  has  considerably  al- 
layed the  anguish  of  my  soul.  Our  letters  crossed,  of 
course,  as  letters  under  such  circumstances  always  do. 

I  am  perpetually  wandering  (in  fancy)  up  and  down 
the  house  and  tumbling  over  the  workmen;  when  I  feel 
that  they  are  gone  to  dinner  I  become  low,  when  I  look 
forward  to  their  total  abstinence  on  Sundays,  I  am 
wretched.  The  gravy  at  dinner  has  a  taste  of  glue  in  it. 
I  smell  paint  in  the  sea.  Phantom  lime  attends  me  all 
the  day  long.  I  dream  that  I  am  a  carpenter  and  can't 
partition  off  the  hall.  I  frequently  dance  (with  a  dis- 
tinguished company)  in  the  drawing-room,  and  fall  in 
the  kitchen  for  want  of  a  pillar. 

A  great  to-do  here.  A  steamer  lost  on  the  Goodwins 
yesterday,  and  our  men  bringing  in  no  end  of  dead 
cattle  and  sheep.  I  stood  a  supper  for  them  last  night, 
to  the  unbounded  gratification  of  Broadstairs.  They 
came  in  from  the  wreck  very  wet  and  tired,  and  very 
much  disconcerted  by  the  nature  of  their  prize — which, 
I  suppose,  after  all,  will  have  to  be  recommitted  to  the 
sea,  when  the  hides  and  tallow  are  secured.  One  lean- 
faced  boatman  murmured,  when  they  were  all  rumina- 


376  CHARLES    DICKENS  [^Et.  40 

tive  over  the  bodies  as  they  lay  on  the  pier:  "Couldn't 
sassages  be  made  on  it?"  but  retired  in  confusion  shortly 
afterwards,  overwhelmed  by  the  execrations  of  the  by- 
standers. 

Ever  affectionately, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 

P.S. — Sometimes  I  think  's  bill  will  be  too  long 

to  be  added  up  until  Babbage's  calculating-machine  shall 
be  improved  and  finished.  Sometimes  that  there  is  not 
paper  enough  ready  made,  to  carry  it  over  and  bring  it 
forward  upon. 

I  dream,  also,  of  the  workmen  every  night.  They 
make  faces  at  me,  and  won't  do  anything. 


40] 

To  W.  H.  WILLS 
[BARKING  DOGS] 

TAVISTOCK  HOUSE, 
Thursday,  Ninth  December,  1852. 
My  dear  Wills,— 

I  am  driven  mad  by  dogs,  who  have  taken  it  into  their 
accursed  heads  to  assemble  every  morning  in  the  piece  of 
ground  opposite,  and  who  have  barked  this  morning  for 
•five  hours  without  intermission;  positively  rendering  it 
impossible  for  me  to  work,  and  so  making  what  is  really 
ridiculous  quite  serious  to  me.  I  wish,  between  this  and 
dinner,  you  would  send  John  to  see  if  he  can  hire  a  gun, 
with  a  few  caps,  some  powder,  and  a  few  charges  of 
small  shot.  If  you  duly  commission  him  with  a  card, 
he  can  easily  do  it.  And  if  I  get  those  implements  up 
here  to-night,  I'll  be  the  death  of  some  of  them  to- 
morrow morning. 

Ever  faithfully, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mt.  41]  CHARLES   DICKENS  377 

[Mt.  40] 

To  CLARKSON  STANFIELD 
[A  NAUTICAL  LETTER] 

H.  M.  S.  TavistocJc, 
Second  January,  1853. 

Yoho,  old  salt!  Neptun'  ahoy!  You  don't  forget, 
messmet,  as  you  was  to  meet  Dick  Sparkler  and  Mark 
Porpuss  on  the  fok'sle  of  the  good  ship  Owssel  Words, 
Wednesday  next,  half  -past  four?  Not  you;  for  when 
did  Stanfell  ever  pass  his  word  to  go  anywheers  and  not 
come?  Well.  Belay,  my  heart  of  oak,  belay!  Come 
alongside  the  Tcfvistock  same  day  and  hour,  'stead  of 
Owssel  Words.  Hail  your  shipmets,  and  they'll  drop  over 
the  side  and  join  you,  like  two  new  shillings  a-droppin' 
into  the  purser's  pocket.  Damn  all  lubberly  boys  and 
swabs,  and  give  me  the  lad  with  the  tarry  trousers,  which 
shines  to  me  like  di'mings  bright! 


.  41] 

To  MRS.  WATSON 
[DESERTED  LONDON] 

BOULOGNE,  Wednesday, 
Twenty-first  September,  1853. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Watson, 

The  courier  was  unfortunately  engaged.  He  offered  to 
recommend  another,  but  I  had  several  applicants,  and 
begged  Mr.  Wills  to  hold  a  grand  review  at  the  "House- 
hold Words"  office,  and  select  the  man  who  is  to  bring 
me  down  as  his  victim.  I  am  extremely  sorry  the  man 
you  recommend  was  not  to  be  had.  I  should  have  been 
so  delighted  to  take  him. 

I  am  finishing  "The  Child's  History,"  and  clearing  the 
way  through  "Household  Words,"  in  general,  before  I  go 
on  my  trip.  I  forget  whether  I  told  you  that  Mr.  Egg 
the  painter  and  Mr.  Collins  are  going  with  me.  The 
other  day  I  was  in  town.  In  case  you  should  not  have 
heard  of  the  condition  of  that  deserted  village,  I  think  it 
worth  mentioning.  All  the  streets  of  any  note  were  un- 
paved,  mountains  high,  and  all  the  omnibuses  were  slid- 


378  CHAKLES    DICKENS  [^Et.  41 

ing  down  alleys,  and  looking  into  the  upper  windows  of 
small  houses.  At  eleven  o'clock  one  morning  I  was  posi- 
tively alone  in  Bond  Street.  I  went  to  one  of  my  tailors, 
and  he  was  at  Brighton.  A  smutty-faced  woman,  among 
some  gorgeous  regimentals,  half-finished,  had  not  the 
least  idea  when  he  would  be  back.  I  went  to  another  of 
my  tailors,  and  he  was  in  an  upper  room,  with  open  win- 
dows and  surrounded  by  mignonette-boxes,  playing  the 
piano  in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  I  went  to  my  hosier's, 
and  two  of  the  least  presentable  of  "the  young  men"  of 
that  elegant  establishment  were  playing  at  draughts  in 
the  back  shop.  (Likewise  I  beheld  a  porter-pot  hastily 
concealed  under  a  Turkish  dressing-gown  of  a  golden 
pattern.)  I  then  went  wandering  about  to  look  for  some 
ingenious  portmanteau,  and  near  the  corner  of  St. 
James's  Street  saw  a  solitary  being  sitting  in  a  trunk- 
shop,  absorbed  in  a  book,  which,  on  a  close  inspection,  I 
found  to  be  "Bleak  House."  I  thought  this  looked  well, 
and  went  in.  And  he  really  was  more  interested  in  see- 
ing me,  when  he  knew  who  I  was,  than  any  face  I  had 
seen  in  any  house,  every  house  I  knew  being  occupied  by 
painters,  including  my  own.  I  went  to  the  Athenasum 
that  same  night,  to  get  my  dinner,  and  it  was  shut  up 
for  repairs.  I  went  home  late,  and  had  forgotten  the  key 
and  was  locked  out. 

Preparations  were  made  here,  about  six  weeks  ago,  to 
receive  the  Emperor,  who  is  not  come  yet.  Meanwhile 
our  countrymen  (deluded  in  the  first  excitement)  go 
about  staring  at  these  arrangements,  and  will  persist  in 
speaking  an  unknown  tongue  to  the  French  people,  who 
will  speak  English  to  them. 

We  are  all  quite  well.  Going  to  drop  two  small  boys 
here,  at  school  with  a  former  Eton  tutor  highly  recom- 
mended to  me.  Charley  was  heard  of  a  day  or  two  ago. 
He  says  his  professor  "is  very  short-sighted,  always  in 
green  spectacles,  always  drinking  weak  beer,  always  smok- 
ing a  pipe,  and  always  at  work."  '  The  last  qualification 
seems  to  appear  to  Charley  the  most  astonishing  one. 
Ever,  my  dear  Mrs.  Watson, 

Most  affectionately  yours, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


JSt.  42]  CHAELES    DICKENS  379 

42] 


To  ARTHUR  KYLAND 
["DAVID  COPPERFIELD"  —  "i  CANNOT  DISTURB  IT"] 

TAVISTOCK  HOUSE,  Monday, 
Twenty-ninth  January,  1855. 
My  dear  Mr.  Ryland, 

I  have  been  in  the  greatest  difficulty  —  which  I  am  not 
yet  out  of  —  to  know  what  to  read,  at  Birmingham.  I  fear 
the  idea  of  next  month  is  now  impracticable.  Which  of 
two  other  months  do  you  think  would  be  preferable  for 
your  Birmingham  objects?  Next  May,  or  next  Decem- 
ber? 

Having  already  read  two  Christmas  books  at  Birming- 
ham, I  should  like  to  get  out  of  that  restriction,  and 
have  a  swim  in  the  broader  waters  of  one  of  my  long 
books.  I  have  been  poring  over  "Copperfield"  (which  is 
my  favourite),  with  the  idea  of  getting  a  reading  out  of 
it,  to  be  called  by  some  such  name  as  "Young  Housekeep- 
ing and  Little  Emily."  But  there  is  still  the  huge  diffi- 
culty that  I  constructed  the  whole  with  immense  pains, 
and  have  so  woven  it  up  and  blended  it  together,  that  I 
cannot  yet  so  separate  the  parts  as  to  tell  the  story  of 
David's  married  life  with  Dora,  and  the  story  of  Mr. 
Peggotty's  search  for  his  niece,  within  the  time.  This 
is  my  object.  If  I  could  possibly  bring  it  to  bear,  it 
would  make  a  very  attractive  reading,  with  a  strong  in- 
terest in  it,  and  a  certain  completeness. 

This  is  exactly  the  state  of  the  case.  I  don't  mind 
confiding  to  you,  that  I  never  can  approach  the  book 
with  perfect  composure  (it  had  such  perfect  .possession 
of  me  when  I  wrote  it),  and  that  I  no  sooner  begin  to 
try  to  get  it  into  this  form,  than  I  begin  to  read  it  all, 
and  to  feel  that  I  cannot  disturb  it.  I  have  not  been 
unmindful  of  the  agreement  we  made  at  parting,  and  I 
have  sat  staring  at  the  backs  of  my  books  for  an  in- 
spiration. This  project  is  the  only  one  that  I  have  con- 
stantly reverted  to,  and  yet  I  have  made  no  progress  in 
it! 

Faithfully  yours  always, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


380  CHARLES    DICKENS  [Mt.  44 

43] 


To  W.  M.  THACKERAY 

,       ["l    SHALL    NEVER    FORGET    YOUR    WORDS"] 

TAVISTOCK  HOUSE,  Friday  Evening, 

Twenty-third  March,  1855. 
My  dear  Thackeray, 

I  have  read  in  The  Times  to-day  an  account  of  your 
last  night's  lecture,  and  cannot  refrain  from  assuring  you 
in  all  truth  and  earnestness  that  I  am  profoundly  touched 
by  your  generous  reference  to  me.  I  do  not  know  how 
to  tell  you  what  a  glow  it  spread  over  my  heart.  Out  of 
its  fulness  I  do  entreat  you  to  believe  that  I  shall  never 
forget  your  words  of  commendation.  If  you  could  wholly 
know  at  once  how  you  have  moved  me,  and  how  you  have 
animated  me,  you  would  be  the  happier  I  am  very  cer- 
tain. 

Faithfully  yours  ever, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 
[Mi.  44] 

To  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

[A    BREAKFAST    AT    SAMUEL    ROGERS's] 

TAVISTOCK  HOUSE,  London, 

Fifth  July,  1856. 
My  dear  Irving, 

If  you  knew  how  often  I  write  to  you  individually  and 
personally  in  my  books,  you  would  be  no  more  surprised 
in  seeing  this  note  than  you  were  in  seeing  me  do  my 
duty  by  that  flowery  julep  (in  what  I  dreamily  appre- 
hend to  have  been  a  former  state  of  existence)  at  Balti- 
more. 

Will  you  let  me  present  to  you  a  cousin  of  mine,  Mr. 
B  --  ,  who  is  associated  with  a  merchant's  house  in  New 
York?  Of  course  he  wants  to  see  you,  and  know  you. 
How  can  /"wonder  at  that?  How  can  anybody? 

I  had  a  long  talk  with  Leslie  at  the  last  Academy 
dinner  (having  previously  been  with  him  in  Paris),  and 
he  told  me  that  you  were  flourishing.  I  suppose  you 
know  that  he  wears  a  moustache  —  so  do  I  for  the  matter 
of  that,  and  a  beard  too  —  and  that  he  looks  like  a  por- 
trait of  Don  Quixote. 


^Et,  46]  CHAELES    DICKENS  381 

Holland  House  has  four-and-twenty  youthful  pages  in 
it  now — twelve  for  my  lord,  and  twelve  for  my  lady;  and 
no  clergyman  coils  his  leg  up  under  his  chair  all  dinner- 
time, and  begins  to  uncurve  it  when  the  hostess  goes. 
No  wheeled  chair  runs  smoothly  in  with  that  beaming 
face  in  it;  -and  -  —a  little  cotton  pocket-handkerchief 
helped  to  make  (I  believe)  this  very  sheet  of  paper.  A 
half -sad,  half-ludicrous  story  of  Rogers  is  all  I  will  sully 
it  with.  You  know,  I  daresay,  that  for  a  year  or  so  be- 
fore his  death  he  wandered,  and  lost  himself  like  one  of 
the  Children  in  the  Wood,  grown  up  there  and  grown 
down  again.  He  had  Mrs.  Procter  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  to 
breakfast  with  him  one  morning — only  those  two.  Both 
excessively  talkative,  very  quick  and  clever,  and  bent  on 
entertaining  him.  When  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  flashed  and 
shone  before  him  for  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  on 
one  subject,  he  turned  his  poor  old  eyes  on  Mrs.  Procter, 
and  pointing  to  the  brilliant  discourser  with  his*  poor  old 
finger,  said  (indignantly),  "Who  is  she?"  Upon  this, 
Mrs.  Procter,  cutting  in,  delivered  (it  is  her  own  story) 
a  neat  oration  on  the  life  and  writings  of  Carlyle,  and 
enlightened  him  in  her  happiest  and  airiest  manner;  all 
of  which  he  heard,  staring  in  the  dreariest  silence,  and 
then  said  (indignantly,  as  before),  "And  who  are  you?" 
Ever,  my  dear  Irving, 

Most  affectionately  and  truly  yours, 
CHARLES  DICKENS. 

[JEt.  46] 

To  EDMUND  YATES 
[TROUBLESOME  "CHRISTIAN  WIRTUES"] 
TAVISTOCK  HOUSE,  TAVISTOCK  SQUARE,  LONDON,  W.  C., 

Wednesday,  Twenty-eighth  April,  1858. 
My  dear  Yates, 

For  a  good  many  years  I  have  suffered  a  great  deal 
from  charities,  but  never  anything  like  what  I  suffer  now. 
The  amount  of  correspondence  they  inflict  upon  me  is 
really  incredible.  But  this  is  nothing.  Benevolent  men 
get  behind  the  piers  of  the  gates,  lying  in  wait  for  my 
going  out ;  and  when  I  peep  shrinkingly  from  my  study- 
windows,  I  see  their  pot-bellied  shadows  projected  on  the 


382  CHARLES    DICKENS  [^Et.  51 

gravel.  Benevolent  bullies  drive  up  in  hansom  cabs  (with 
engraved  portraits  of  their  benevolent  institutions  hang- 
ing over  the  aprons,  like  banners  on  their  outward  walls) , 
and  stay  long  at  the  door.  -Benevolent  area-sneaks  get 
lost  in  the  kitchens  and  are  found  to  impede  the  circula- 
tion of  the  knife-cleaning  machine.  My  man  has  been 
heard  to  say  (at  The  Burton  Arms)  "that  if  it  was  a 
wicious  place,  well  and  good — that  an't  door  work;  but 
that  wen  all  the  Christian  wirtues  is  always  a-shoulderin' 
and  a-helberin'  on  you  in  the  'all,  a-tryin'  to  git  past  you 
and  cut  upstairs  into  master's  room,  why  no  wages  as 
you  couldn't  name  wouldn't  make  it  up  to  you." 

Persecuted  ever, 
CHARLES  DICKENS. 

[Mt.  51]* 

To  JOHN  BENNETT 
[A  CLOCK  "WITH  SOMETHINGS  ON  ITS  WORKS"] 

GAD'S  HILL  PLACE,  HIGHAM  BY  ROCHESTER,  KENT, 

Monday  Night,  Fourteenth  September,  1863. 
My  dear  Sir, 

Since  my  hall  clock  was  sent  to  your  establishment  to 
be  cleaned  it  has  gone  (as  indeed  it  always  has)  perfectly 
well,  but  has  struck  the  hours  with  great  reluctance,  and 
after  enduring  internal  agonies  of  a  most  distressing 
nature,  it  has  now  ceased  striking  altogether.  Though  a 
happy  release  for  the  clock,  this  is  not  convenient  to  the 
household.  If  you  can  send  down  any  confidential  per- 
son with  whom  the  clock  can  confer,  I  think  it  may  have 
something  on  its  works  that  it  would  be  glad  to  make  a 
clean  breast  of. 

Faithfully  yours,     . 
CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mt.  53]  CHAELES    DICKENS  383 

53] 


To  THOMAS  MITTON 
[A  RAILWAY  WRECK] 
GAD'S  HILL  PLACE,  HICHAM  BY  ROCHESTER,  KENT, 

Tuesday,   Thirteenth  June,   1865. 
My  dear  Mitton, 

I  should  have  written  to  you  yesterday  or  the  day  be- 
fore, if  I  had  been  quite  up  to  writing. 

I  was  in  the  only  carriage  that  did  not  go  over  into 
the  stream.  It  was  caught  upon  the  turn  by  some  of  the 
ruin  of  the  bridge,  and  hung  suspended  and  balanced  in 
an  apparently  impossible  manner.  Two  ladies  were  my 
fellow-passengers,  an  old  one  and  a  young  one.  This  is 
exactly  what  passed.  You  may  judge  from  it  the  precise 
length  of  the  suspense:  Suddenly  we  were  off  the  rail, 
and  beating  the  ground  as  the  car  of  a  half-emptied 
balloon  might.  The  old  lady  cried  out,  "My  God!"  and 
the  young  one  screamed.  I  caught  hold  of  'them  both 
(the  old  lady  sat  opposite  and  the  young  one  on  my  left), 
and  said:  "We  can't  help  ourselves,  but  we  can  be  quiet 
and  composed.  Pray  don't  cry  out."  The  old  lady  im- 
mediately answered:  "Thank  you.  Rely  upon  me.  Upon 
my  soul  I  will  be  quiet."  We  were  then  all  tilteol  down 
together  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  stopped.  I  'said 
to  them  thereupon:  "You  may  be  sure  nothing  worse 
can  happen.  Our  danger  must  be  over.  Will  you  re- 
main here  without  stirring,  while  I  get  out  of  the  win- 
dow?" They  both  answered  quite  collectedly,  "Yes,"  and 
I  got  out  without  the  least  notion  what  had  happened. 
Fortunately  I  got  out  with  great  caution  and  stood  upon 
the  step.  Looking  down  I  saw  the  bridge  gone,  and 
nothing  below  me  but  the  line  of  rail.  Some  people  in 
the  two  other  compartments  were  madly  trying  to  plunge 
out  of  window,  and  had  no  idea  that  there  was  an  open 
swampy  field  fifteen  feet  down  below  them,  and  nothing 
else!  The  two  guards  (one  with  his  face  cut)  were  run- 
ning up  and  down  on  the  down  side  of  the  bridge  (which 
was  not  torn  up)  quite  wildly.  I  called  out  to  them  : 
"Look  at  me.  Do  stop  an  instant  and  look  at  me,  and 
tell  me  whether  you  don't  know  me."  One  of  them  an- 
swered :  "We  know  you  very  well,  Mr.  Dickens."  "Then," 


384  CHAKLES    DICKENS  [^Et.  53 

I  said,  "my  good  fellow,  for  God's  sake  give  me  your 
key,  and  send  one  of  those  labourers  here,  and  I'll  empty 
this  carriage."  We  did  it  quite  safely,  by  means  of  a 
plank  or  two,  and  when  it  was  done  I  saw  all  the  rest 
of  the  train,  except  the  two  baggage  vans,  down  in  the 
stream.  I  got  into  the  carriage  again  for  my  brandy 
flask,  took  off  my  travelling  hat  for  a  basin,  climbed  down 
the  brickwork,  and  filled  my  hat  with  water. 

Suddenly  I  came  upon  a  staggering  man  covered  with 
blood  (I  think  he  must  have  been  flung  clean  out  of  his 
carriage),  with  such  a  frightful  cut  across  the  skull  that 
I  couldn't  bear  to  look  at  him.  I  poured  some  water  over 
his  face  and  gave  him  some  drink,  then  gave  him  some 
brandy,  and  laid  him  down  on  the  grass,  and  he  said, 
"I  am  gone,"  and  died  afterwards.  Then  I  stumbled  over 
a  lady  lying  on  her  back  against  a  little  pollard-tree,  with 
the  blood  streaming  over  her  face  (which  was  lead  color) 
in  a  number  of  distinct  little  streams  from  the  head.  I 
asked  her  if  she  could  swallow  a  little  brandy  and  she 
just  nodded,  and  I  gave  her  some  and  left  her  for  some- 
body else.  The  next  time  I  passed  her  she  was  dead. 
Then  a  man,  examined  at  the  inquest  yesterday  (who 
evidently  had  not  the  least  remembrance  of  what  really 
passed)  came  running  up  to  me  and  implored  me  to  help 
him  find  his  wife,  who  was  afterwards  found  dead.  No 
imagination  can  conceive  the  ruin  of  the  carriages,  or 
the  extraordinary  weights  under  which  the  people  were 
lying,  or  the  complications  into  which  they  were  twisted 
up  among  iron  and  wood,  and  mud  and  water. 

I  don't  want  to  be  examined  at  the  inquest  and  I  don't 
want  to  write  about  it.  I  could  do  no  good  either  way, 
and  I  could  only  seem  to  speak  about  myself,  which,  of 
course,  I  would  rather  not  do;  I  am  keeping  very  quiet 
here.  I  have  a — I  don't  know  what  to  call  it — constitu- 
tional (I  suppose)  presence  of  mind,  and  was  not  in  the 
least  fluttered  at  the  time.  I  instantly  remembered  that 
I  had  the  MS.  of  a  number  with  me,  and  clambered  back 
into  the  carriage  for  it.  But  in  writing  these  scanty 
words  of  recollection  I  feel  the  shake  and  am  obliged  to 
stop. 

Ever  faithfully, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mt.  55]  CHARLES    DICKENS  385 

.  55] 


To  Miss  DICKENS 
[SECOND  VISIT  TO  AMERICA] 

PARKER  HOUSE,  BOSTON, 
Sunday,  First  December,  1867. 

I  received  yours  of  the  Eighteenth  November,  yester- 
day. As  I  left  Halifax  in  the  Cuba  that  very  day,  you 
probably  saw  us  telegraphed  in  The  Times  on  the  Nine- 
teenth. 

I  think  you  had  best  in  future  (unless  I  give  you  in- 
timation to  the  -contrary)  address  your  letters  to  me,  at 
the  Westminster  Hotel,  Irving  Place,  New  York  City. 
It  is  a  more  central  position  than  this,  and  we  are  likely 
to  be  much  more  there  than  here.  I  am  going  to  set  up 
a  brougham  in  New  York,  and  keep  my  rooms  at  that 
hotel. 

They  are  said  to  be  a  very  quiet  audience  here,  appre- 
ciative but  not  demonstrative.  I  shall  try  to  change  their 
character  a  little. 

I  have  been  going  on  very  well.  A  horrible  custom 
obtains  in  these  parts  of  asking  you  to  dinner  somewhere 
at  half-past  two,  and  to  supper  somewhere  else  about 
eight.  I  have  run  this  gauntlet  more  than  once,  and  its 
effect  is,  that  there  is  no  day  for  any  useful  purpose,  and 
that  the  length  of  the  evening  is  multiplied  by  a  hun- 
dred. Yesterday  I  dined  with  a  club  at  half-past  two, 
and  came  back  here  at  half-past  eight  with  a  general  im- 
pression that  it  was  at  least  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Two  days  before  I  dined  with  Longfellow  at  half-past 
two,  and  came  back  at  eight,  supposing  it  to  be  mid- 
night. To-day  we  have  a  state  dinner-party  in  our  rooms 
at  six.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fields,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bigelow. 
(He  is  a  friend  of  Forster's,  and  was  American  Minister 
in  Paris.)  There  are  no  negro  waiters  here,  all  the  serv- 
ants are  •  Irish  —  willing,  but  not  able.  The  dinners  and 
wines  are  very  good.  I  keep  our  own  rooms  well  ven- 
tilated by  opening  the  windows,  but  no  window  is  ever 
opened  in  the  halls  or  passages,  and  they  are  so  over- 
heated by  a  great  furnace,  that  they  make  me  faint  and 
sick.  The  air  is  like  that  of  a  pre-Adamite  ironing-day 
in  full  blast.  Your  respected  parent  is  immensely  popu- 


386  CHARLES    DICKENS  [^Et.  56 

lar  in  Boston  society,   and  its  cordiality  and  unaffected 
heartiness  are  charming.    I  wish  I  could  carry  it  with  me. 

The  leading  New  York  papers  have  sent  men  over  for 
to-morrow  night  with  instructions  to  telegraph  columns 
of  descriptions.  Great  excitement  and  expectation  every- 
where. Fields  says  he  has  looked  forward  to  it  so  long 
that  he  knows  that  he  will  die  at  five  minutes  to  eight. 

At  the  New  York  barriers,  where  the  tickets  are  on 
sale  and  the  people  ranged  as  at  the  Paris  theatres,  specu- 
lators went  up  and  down  offering  "twenty  dollars  for 
anybody's  place."  The  money  was  in  no  case  accepted. 
One  man  sold  two  tickets  for  the  second,  third,  and 
fourth  night  "for  one  ticket  for  the  first,  fifty  dollars" 
(about  seven  pounds  ten  shillings)  "and  a  brandy  cock- 
tail," which  is  an  iced  bitter  drink.  The  weather  has 
been  rather  muggy  and  languid  until  yesterday,  when 
there  was  the  coldest  wind  blowing  that  I  ever  felt.  In 
the  night  it  froze  very  hard,  and  to-day  the  sky  is  beau- 
tiful. 

Tuesday,  Third  December. 

Most  magnificent  reception  last  night,  and  most  signal 
and  complete  success.  Nothing  could  be  more  triumph- 
ant. The  people  will  hear  of  nothing  else  and  talk  of 
nothing  else.  Nothing  that  was  ever  done  here,  they  all 
agree,  evoked  any  approach  to  such  enthusiasm.  I  was 
quite  as  cool  and  quick  as  if  I  were  reading  at  Green- 
wich, and  went  at  it  accordingly.  My  love  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hulkes  and  the  boy,  and  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Malleson. 


[JEt.  56] 

To  MRS.  JAMES  T.  FIELDS 
[WELCOME  HOME  FROM  AMERICA] 

GAD'S  HILL,  HIGHAM  BY  ROCHESTER,  KENT, 

Twenty-fifth  May,  1868. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Fields, 

As  you  ask  me  about  the  dogs,  I  begin  with  them. 
When  I  came  down  first,  I  came  to  Gravesend,  five  miles 
off.  The  two  Newfoundland  dogs,  coming  to  meet  me 
with  the  usual  carriage  and  the  usual  driver,  and  be- 
holding me  coming  in  my  usual  dress  out  at  the  usual 


Mt.  56]  CHAELES    DICKENS  387 

door,  it  struck  me  that  their  recollection  of  my  having 
been  absent  for  any  unusual  time  was  at  once  cancelled. 
They  behaved  (they  are  both  young  dogs)  exactly  in  their 
usual  manner;  coming  behind  the  basket  phaeton  as  we 
trotted  along,  and  lifting  their  heads  to  have  their  ears 
pulled — a  special  attention  which  they  receive  from  no 
one  else.  But  when  I  drove  into  the  stable-yard,  Linda 
(the  St.  Bernard)  was  greatly  excited;  weeping  pro- 
fusely, and  throwing  herself  on  her  back  that  she  might 
caress  my  foot  with  her  great  fore-paws.  Mamie's  little 
dog,  too,  Mrs.  Bouncer,  barked  in  the  greatest  agitation 
on  being  called  down  and  asked  by  Mamie,  "Who  is  this  ?" 
and  tore  round  and  round  me,  like  the  dog  in  the  Faust 
outlines.  You  must  know  that  all  the  farmers  turned 
out  on  the  road  in  their  market-chaises  ta  say,  "Welcome 
home,  sir!"  and  that  all  the  houses  along  the  road  were 
dressed  with  flags;  and  that  our  servants,  to  cut  out  the 
rest,  had  dressed  this  house  so  that  every  brick  of  it  was 
hidden.  They  had  asked  Mamie's  permission  to  "ring  the 
alarm-bell"  ( !)  when  master  drove  up,  but  Mamie,  having 
some  slight  idea  that  that  compliment  might  awaken 
master's  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  had  recommended  bell 
abstinence.  But  on  Sunday  the  village  choir  (which  in- 
cludes the  bell-ringers)  made  amends.  After  some  un- 
usually brief  pious  reflections  in  the  crowns  of  their  hats 
at  the  end  of  the  sermon,  the  ringers  bolted  out,  and  rang 
like  mad  until  I  got  home.  There  had  been  a  conspiracy 
among  the  villagers  to  take  the  horse  out,  if  I  had  come 
to  our  own  station,  and  draw  me  here.  Mamie  and 
Georgy  had  got  wind  of  it  and  warned  me. 

Divers  birds  sing  here  all  day,  and  the  nightingales 
all  night!  The  place  is  lovely,  and  in  perfect  order.  I 
have  put  five  mirrors  in  the  Swiss  chalet  (where  I  write) 
and  they  reflect  and  refract  in  all  kinds  of  ways  the 
leaves  that  are  quivering  at  the  windows,  and  the  great 
fields  of  waving  corn,  and  the  sail-dotted  river.  My  room 
is  up  among  the  branches  of  the  trees;  and  the  birds  and 
the  butterflies  fly  in  and  out,  and  the  green  branches 
shoot  in,  at  the  open  windows,  and  the  lights  and  shadows 
of  the  clouds  come  and  go  with  the  rest  of  the  company. 
The  scent  of  the  flowers,  and  indeed  of  everything  that 
is  growing  for  miles  and  miles,  is  most  delicious. 


£88  CHAKLES    DICKENS  [^ETt.  56 

Dolby  (who  sends  a  word  of  messages)  found  his  wife 
much  better  than  he  expected,  and  the  children  (won- 
derful to  relate!)  perfect.  The  little  girl  winds  up  her 
prayers  every  night  with  a  special  commendation  to 
Heaven  of  me  and  the  pony — as  if  I  must  mount  him 
to  get  there !  I  dine  -with  Dolby  (I  was  going  to  write 
"him,"  but  found  it  would  look  as  if  I  were  going  to 
dine  with  the  pony)  at  Greenwich  this  very  day,  and  if 
your  ears  do  not  burn  from  six  to  nine  this  evening,  then 
the  Atlantic  is  a  non-conductor. 

It  is  time  I  should  explain  the  otherwise  inexplicable 
enclosure.  Will  you  tell  Fields,  with  my  love  (I  suppose 
he  hasn't  used  all  the  pens  yet?),  that  I  think  there  is 
in  Tremont  Street  a  set  of  my  books,  sent  out  by  Chap- 
man, not  arrived  when  I  departed.  Such  set  of  the  im- 
mortal works  of  our  illustrious,  etc.,  is  designed  for  the 
gentleman  to  whom  the  enclosure  is  addressed.  If  T.,  F. 
and  Co.,  will  kindly  forward  the  set  (carriage  paid)  with 
the  enclosure  to.  —  — 's  address,  I  will  invoke  new  bless- 
ings on  their  heads,  and  will  get  Dolby's  little  daughter 
to  mention  them  nightly. 

"No  Thoroughfare"  is  very  shortly  coming  out  in 
Paris,  where  it  is  now  in  active  rehearsal.  It  is  still  play- 
ing here,  but  without  Fechter,  who  has  been  very  ill. 
The  doctor's  dismissal  of  him  to  Paris,  however,  and  his 
getting  better  there,  enables  him  to  get  up  the  play  there. 
He  and  Wilkie  missed  so  many  pieces  of  stage-effect 
here,  that,  unless  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  his  report,  I 
shall  go  over  and  try  my  stage-managerial  hand  at  the 
Vaudeville  Theatre. 

Ever,  my  dear  Mrs.  Fields, 

Your  most  affectionate  friend, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mt.  56]  CHAKLES    DICKENS  589 

[Mt.  56] 

To  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON  DICKENS* 

[A  LETTER  OF  GOOD  COUNSEL] 

[1868] 
My  dearest  Plorn, 

I  write  this  note  to-day  because  your  going  away  is 
much  upon  my  mind,  and  because  I  want  you  to  have  a 
few  parting  words  from  me  to  think  of  now  and  then  at 
quiet  times.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  love  you  dearly, 
and  am  very,  very  sorry  in  my  heart  to  part  with  you. 
But  this  life  is  half  made  up  of  partings,  and  these  pains 
must  be  borne.  It  is  my  comfort  and  my  sincere  con- 
viction that  you  are  going  to  try  the  life  for  which  you 
are  best  fitted.  I  think  its  freedom  and  wildness  more 
suited  to  you  than  any  experiment  in  a  study  or  office 
would  ever  have  been;  and  without  that  training,  you 
could  have  followed  no  other  suitable  occupation. 

What  you  have  already  wanted  until  now  has  been  a 
set,  steady,  constant  purpose.  I  therefore  exhort  you  to 
persevere  in  a  thorough  determination  to  do  whatever 
you  have  to  do  as  well  as  you  can  do  it.  I  was  not  so 
old  as  you  are  now  when  I  first  had  to  win  my  food,  and 
do  this  out  of  this  determination,  and  I  have  never 
slackened  in  it  since. 

Never  take  a  mean  advantage  of  anyone  in  any  trans- 
action, 'and  never  be  hard  upon  people  who  are  in  your 
power.  Try  to  do  to  others,  as  you  would  have  them  do 
to  you,  and  do  not  be  discouraged  if  they  fail  sometimes. 
It  is  much  better  for  you  that  they  should  fail  in  obey- 
ing the  greatest  rule  laid  down  by  our  Saviour,  than  that 
you  should. 

I  put  a  New  Testament  among  your  books,  for  the 
very  same  reasons,  and  with  the  very  same  hopes  that 
made  me  write  an  easy  account  of  i^.  for  you,  when  you 
were  a  little  child;  because  it  is  the  best  book  that  ever 
was  or  will  be  known  in  the  world,  and  because  it  teaches 
you  the  best  lessons  by  which  any  human  creature  who 
tries  to  be  truthful  and  faithful  to  duty  can  possibly  be 
guided.  As  your  brothers  have  gone  away,  one  by  one, 

*  His   youngest   son,   leaving   for    Australia. 


390  KOBEET    BEOWNING  [Mt.  44 

I  have  written  to  each  such  words  as  I  am  now  writing 
to  you,  and  have  entreated  them  all  to  guide  themselves  by 
this  book,  putting  aside  the  interpretations  and  inven- 
tions of  men. 

You  will  remember  that  you  have  never  at  home  been 
wearied  about  religious  observances  or  mere  formalities. 
I  have  always  been  anxious  not  to  weary  my  children 
with  such  things  before  they  are  old  enough  to  form 
opinions  respecting  them.  You  will  therefore  under- 
stand the  better  that  I  now  most  solemnly  impress  upon 
you  the  truth  and  beauty  of  the  Christian  religion,  as  it 
came  from  Christ  Himself,  and  the  impossibility  of  your 
going  far  wrong  if  you  humbly  but  heartily  respect  it. 

Only  one  thing  more  on  this  head.  The  more  we.  are 
in  earnest  as  to  feeling  it,  the  less  we  are  disposed  to 
hold  forth  about  it.  Never  abandon  the  wholesome  prac- 
tice of  saying  your  own  private  prayers,  night  and  morn- 
ing. I  have  never  abandoned  it  myself,  and  I  know  the 
comfort  of  it. 

I  hope  you  will  always  be  able  to  say  in  after  life,  that 
you  had  a  kind  father.  .You  cannot  show  your  affection 
for  him  so  well,  or  make  him  so  happy,  as  by  doing  your 
duty. 

Your  affectionate  Father, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


44]  EGBERT   BROWNING 

1812-1889 

To  MRS.  MARTIN 

[THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  BROWNING'S  FATHER] 

FLORENCE,  May  3,  1857. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Martin, — 

Truest  thanks  for  your  letter.  We  had  the  intelligence 
from  George  last  Thursday  week,  having  been  only  pre- 
pared for  the  illness  by  a  note  received  from  Arabel  the 
day  before.  Ba*  was  sadly  affected  at  first;  miserable 
to  see  and  hear.  After  a  few  days  tears  came  to  her 
relief.  She  is  now  very  weak  and  prostrated,  but  im- 

*  Mrs.   Browning. 


Mi.  46]  ROBERT   BROWNING  391 

proving  in  strength  of  body  and  mind:  I  have  no  fear 
for  the  result.  I  suppose  you  know,  at  least,  the  very 
little  that  we  know;  and  how  unaware  poor  Mr.  Barrett 
was  of  his  imminent  death:  "he  bade  them,"  says  Arabel, 
"make  him  comfortable  for  the  night,  but  a  moment  be- 
fore the  last."  And  he  had  dismissed  her  and  her  aunt 
about  an  hour  before,  with  a  cheerful  or  careless  word 
about  "wishing  them  good  night."  So  it  is  all  over  now, 
all  hope  of  better  things,  or  a  kind  answer  to  entreaties 
such  as  I  have  seen  Ba  write  in  the  bitterness  of  her 
heart.  There  must  have  been  something  in  the  organi- 
sation, or  education,  at  least,  that  would  account  for  and 
extenuate  all  this;  but  it  has  caused  grief  enough,  I 
know;  and  now  here  is  a  new  grief  not  likely  to  subside 
very  soon.  Not  that  Ba  is  other  than  reasonable  and 
just  to  herself  in  the  matter:  she  does  not  reproach  her- 
self at  all;  it  is  all  mere  grief,  as  I  say,  that  this  should 
have  been  so;  and  I  sympathise  with  her  there. 

George  wrote  very  affectionately  to  tell  me;  and  dear, 
admirable  Arabel  sent  a  note  the  very  next  day  to  prove 
to  Ba  that  there  was  nothing  to  fear  on  her  account. 
Since  then  we  have  heard  nothing.  The  funeral  was  to 
take  place  in  Herefordshire.  We  had  just  made  up  our 
minds  to  go  on  no  account  to  England  this  year.  Ba 
felt  the  restraint  on  her  too  horrible  to  bear,  I  will,  or 
she  will,  no  doubt,  write  and  tell  you  of  herself;  and 
you  must  write,  dear  Mrs.  Martin,  will  you  not? 

Kindest  regard  to  Mr.  Martin  and  all. 

Yours  faithfully  ever, 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 
[^Et.  46] 

To  MR.  RUSKIN 
[A  POSTSCRIPT  TO  A  LETTER  BY  HIS  WIFE] 

[ROME,  43  BOCCA  DI  LEONE, 
January  1,  1859.] 

I  am  to  say  something,  dear  Ruskin;  it  shall  be  only 
the  best  of  wishes  for  this  and  all  other  years;  go  on 
again  like  the  noble  and  dear  man  you  are  to  us  all, 
and  especially  to  us  two  out  of  them  all.  Whenever  I 
chance  on  an  extract,  a  report,  it  lights  up  the  dull 
newspaper  stuff  wrapt  round  it  and  makes  me  glad  at 


392  ROBEKT    BROWNING  [^Et.  49 

heart  and  clearer  in  head.  We,  for  our  part,  have  just 
sent  off  a  corrected  "Aurora  Leigh,"  which  is  the  better 
for  a  deal  of  pains,  we  hope,  and  my  wife  deserves.  There 
will  be  a  portrait  from  a  photograph  done  at  Havre  with- 
out retouching — good,  I  think.  Truest  love  to  you  and 
yours — your  father  and  mother.  Do  help  us  by  a  word 
.  every  now  and  then. 

Affectionately  yours, 

R.  B. 
[^Et.  49] 

To  Miss  HAWORTH 
[THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  BROWNING] 

FLORENCE,  July  20,  1861. 
My  dear  Friend, — 

I  well  know  you  feel  as  you  say,  for  her  once  and  for 
me  now.  Isa  Blagden,  perfect  in  all  kindness  to  me, 
will  have  told  you  something  perhaps — and  one  day  I 
shall  see  you  and  be  able  to  tell  you  myself  as  much 
as  I  can.  The  main  comfort  is  that  she  suffered  very 
little  pain,  none  beside  that  ordinarily  attending  the  sim- 
ple attacks  of  cold  and  cough  she  was  subject  to — had 
no  presentiment  of  the  result  whatever,  and  was  conse- 
quently spared  the  misery  of  knowing  she  was  about  to 
leave  us;  she  was  smilingly  assuring  me  she  was  "better," 
"quite  comfortable — if  I  would  but  come  to  bed,"  to  within 
a  few  minutes  of  the  last.  I  think  I  foreboded  evil  at 
Rome,  certainly  from  the  beginning  of  the  week's  illness 
— but  when  I  reasoned  about  it,  there  was  no  justifying 
fear — she  said  on  the  last  evening  "it  is  merely  the  old 
attack,  not  so  severe  a  one  as  that  of  two  years  ago — 
there  is  no  doubt  I  shall  soon  recover,"  and  we  talked 
over  plans  for  the  summer,  and  next  year.  I  sent  the 
servants  away  and  her  maid  to  bed — so  little  reason  for 
disquietude  did  there  seem.  Through  the  night  she  slept 
heavily,  and  brokenly — that  was  the  bad  sign — but  then 
she  would  sit  up,  take  her  medicine,  say  unrepeatable 
things  to  me  and  sleep  again.  At  four  o'clock  there  were 
symptoms  that  alarmed  me ;  I  called  the  maid  and  sent 
for  the  doctor.  She  smiled  as  I  proposed  to  bathe  her 
feet,  "Well,  you  are  determined  to  make  an  exaggerated 
case  of  it!"  Then  came  what  my  heart  will  keep  till  I 


Mt.  49]  EOBEKT    BROWNING  393 

see  her  again  and  longer — the  most  perfect  expression  of 
her  love  to  me  within  my  whole  knowledge  of  her.  Al- 
ways smiling,  happily,  and  with  a  face  like  a  girl's — and 
in  a  few  minutes  she  died  in  my  arms;  her  head  on  my 
cheek.  These  incidents  so  sustain  me  that  I  tell  them  to 
her  beloved  ones  as  their  right:  there  was  no  lingering, 
nor  acute  pain,  nor  consciousness  of  separation,  but  God 
took  her  to  himself  as  you  would  lift  a  sleeping  child 
from  a  dark,  uneasy  bed  into  your  arms  and  the  light. 
Thank  God.  Annunziata  thought  by  her  earnest  ways 
with  me,  happy  and  smiling  as  they  were,  that  she  must 
iave  been  aware  of  our  parting's  approach — but  she  was 
quite  conscious,  had  words  at  command,  and  yet  did  not 
even  speak  of  Peni,  who  was  in  the  next  room.  Her  last 
word  was  when  I  asked  "How  do  you  feel  ?" — "Beautiful." 
You  know  I  have  her  dearest  wishes  and  interests  to 
attend  to  at  once — her  child  to  care  for,  educate,  estab- 
lish properly;  and  my  own  life  to  fulfil  as  properly, — all 
just  as  she  would  require  were  she  here.  I  shall  leave 
[taly  altogether  for  years — go  to  London  for  a  few  days' 
;alk  with  Arabel — then  go  to  my  father  and  begin  to  try 
.eisurely  what  will  be  the  best  for  Peni — but  no  more 
'housekeeping"  for  me,  even  with  my  family.  I  shall 
grow,  still,  I  hope — but  my  root  is  taken  and  remains. 

I  know  you  always  loved  her,  and  me  too  in  my  degree. 
[  shall  always  be  grateful  to  those  who  loved  her,  and 
that,  I  repeat,  you  did. 

She  was,  and  is,  lamented  with  extraordinary  demon- 
strations, if  one  consider  it.  The  Italians  seem  to  have 
understood  her  by  an  instinct.  I  have  received  strange 
dndness  from  everybody.  Pen  is  very  well — very  dear 
and  good,  anxious  to  comfort  me  as  he  calls  it.  He 
an't  know  his  loss  yet.  After  years,  his  will  be  worse 
than  mme-^he  will  want  what  he  never  had — that  is,  for 
the  time  when  he  could  be  helped  by  her  wisdom,  and 
genius  and  piety — I  have  had  everything  and  shall  not 
forget. 

God  bless  you,  dear  friend.  I  believe  I  shall  set  out 
n  a  week.  Isa  goes  with  me — dear,  true  heart.  You, 
;oo,  would  do  what  you  could  for  us  were  you  here  and 
your  assistance  needful.  A  letter  from  you  came  a  day 
two  before  the  end — she  made  me  enquire  about  the 


394  ELIZABETH   B.   BROWNING        [JSt.  40 

Frescobaldi  Palace  for  you, — Isa  wrote  to  you  in  conse- 
quence. I  shall  be  heard  of  at  151,  rue  de  Grenelle, 
St.  Germain. 

Faithfully  and  affectionately  yours, 
ROBERT  BROWNING. 


.[^Et.  40] 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 

1806-1861 

To  MRS.  MARTIN 

[HER  MARRIAGE  TO  ROBERT  BROWNING] 

COLLEGIO  FERDINANDO,  PISA, 

October  20  [?],  1846. 
My  dearest  Mrs.  Martin, — 

Will  you  believe  that  I  began  a  letter  to  you  before  I 
took  this  step,  to  give  you  the  whole  story  of  the  impulses 
towards  it,  feeling  strongly  that  I  owed  what  I  considered 
my  justification  to  such  dear  friends  as  yourself  and  Mr. 
Martin,  that  you  might  not  hastily  conclude  that  you  had 
thrown  away  upon  one  who  was  quite  unworthy  the  regard 
of  years?  I  had  begun  such  a  letter — when,  by  the  plan 
of  going  to  Little  Bookham,  my  plans  were  all  hurried 
forward — changed — driven  prematurely  into  action,  and 
the  last  hours  of  agitation  and  deep  anguish — for  it  was 
the  deepest  of  its  kind,  to  leave  Wimpole  Street  and  those 
whom  I  tenderly  loved — so  would  not  admit  of  my  writing 
or  thinking:  only  I  was  able  to  think  that  my  beloved 
sisters  would  send  you  some  account  of  me  when  I  was 

fone.  And  now  I  hear  from  them  that  your  generosity 
as  not  waited  for  a  letter  from  me  to  do  its  best  for 
me,  and  that  instead  of  being  vexed,  as  you  might  well 
be,  at  my  leaving  England  without  a  word  sent  to  you, 
you  have  used  kind  offices  in  my  behalf,  you  have  been- 
more  than  the  generous  and  affectionate  friend  I  always 
considered  you.  So  my  first  words  must  be  that  I  am 
deeply  grateful  to  you,  my  very  dear  friend,  and  that  to 
the  last  moment  of  my  life  I  shall  remember  the  claim 
you  have  on  my  gratitude.  Generous  people  are  inclined 
to  acquit  generously;  but  it  has  been  very  painful  to  me 
to  observe  that  with  all  my  mere  friends  I  have  found 


JEt.  40]        ELIZABETH   B.    BKOWNING  395 

more  sympathy  and  trust,  than  in  those  who  are  of  my 
own  household  and  who  have  been  daily  witnesses  of  my 
life.  I  do  not  say  this  for  papa,  who  is  peculiar  and  in 

a  peculiar  position ;  but  it  pained  me  that ,  who  knew 

all  that  passed  last  year — for  instance,  about  Pisa — who 
knew  that  the  alternative  of  making  a  single  effort  to 
secure  my  health  during  the  winter  was  the  severe  dis- 
pleasure I  have  incurred  now,  and  that  the  fruit  of 
yielding  myself  a  prisoner  was  the  sense  of  being  of  no 
use  nor  comfort  to  any  soul,  papa  having  given  up  com- 
ing to  see  me  except  for  five  minutes  a  day;  -  — ,  who 
said  to  me  with  his  own  lips,  "He  does  not  love  .you — 
do  not  think  it"  (said  and"  repeated  it  two  months  ago) — 

that should  now  turn  round  and  reproach  me  for  want 

of  affection  towards  my  family,  for  not  letting  myself 
drop  like  a  dead  weight  into  the  abyss,  a  sacrifice  without 
an  object  and  expiation — this  did  surprise  me  and  pain 
me — pained  me  more  than  all  papa's  dreadful  words. 
But  the  personal  feeling  is  nearer  with  most  of  us  than 
the  tenderest  feeling  for  another;  and  my  family  had 
been  so  accustomed  to  the  idea  of  my  living  on  and  on 
in  that  room,  that  while  my  heart  was  eating  itself,  their 
love  for  me  was  consoled,  and  at  last  the  evil  grew  scarcely 
perceptible.  It  was  no  want  of  love  in  them,  and  quite 
•natural  in  itself:  we  all  get  used  to  the  thought  of  a 
tomb;  and  I  was  buried,  that  was  the  whole.  It  was  a 
little  thing  even  for  myself  a  short  time  ago,  and  really 
it  would  be  a  pneumatological  curiosity  if  I  could  describe 
and  let  you  see  how  perfectly  for  yearg  together,  after* 
what  broke  my  heart  at  Torquay,  I  lived  on  the  outside 
of  my  own  life,  blindly  and  darkly  from  day  to  day,  as 
completely  dead  to  hope  of  any  kind  as  if  I  had  my 
face  against  a  grave,  never  feeling  a  personal  instinct, 
taking  trains  of  thought  to  carry  out  as  an  occupation 
absolutely  indifferent  to  the  me  which  is  in  every  human 
being.  Nobody  quite  understood  this  of  me,  because  I 
am  not  morally  a  coward,  and  have  a  hatred  of  all  the 
forms  of  audible  groaning.  But  God  knows  what  is 
within,  and  how  utterly  I  had  abdicated  myself  and 
thought  it  not  worth  while  to  put  out  my  finger  to  touch 

*  The  death  by  drowning  of  her  brother. 


396  ELIZABETH   B.   BKOWNING        [Mt.  40 

my  share  of  life.  Even  my  poetry,  which  suddenly  grew 
an  interest,  was  a  thing  on  the  outside  of  me,  a  thing 
to  be  done,  and  then  done!  What  people  said  of  it  did 
not  touch  me.  A  thoroughly  morbid  and  desolate  state 
it  was,  which  I  look  back  now  to  with  the  sort  of  horror 
with  which  one  would  look  to  one's  graveclothes,  if  one 
had  been  clothed  in  them  by  mistake  during  a  trance. 

And  now  I  will  tell  you.  It  is  nearly  two  years  ago 
since  I  have  known  Mr.  Browning.  Mr.  Kenyon  wished 
to  bring  him  to  see  me  five  years  ago,  as  one  of  the  lions 
of  London  who  roared  the  gentlest  and  was  best  worth 
my  knowing;  but  I  refused  then,  in  my  blind  dislike  to 
seeing  strangers.  Immediately,  however,  after  the  pub- 
lication of  my  last  volumes,  he  wrote  to  me,  and  we  had 
a  correspondence  which  ended  in  my  agreeing  to  receive 
him  as  I  never  had  received  any  other  man.  I  did  not 
know  why,  but  it  was  utterly  impossible  for  me  to  refuse 
to  receive  him,  though  I  consented  against  my  will.  He 
writes  the  most  exquisite  letters  possible,  and  has  a  way 
of  putting  things  which  I  have  not,  a  way  of  putting 
aside — so  he  came.  He  came,  and  with  our  personal  ac- 
quaintance began  his  attachment  for  me,  a  sort  of  in- 
fatuation call  it,  which  resisted  the  various  denials  which 
were  my  plain  duty  at  the  beginning,  and  has  persisted 
past  them  all.  I  began  with  a  grave  assurance  that  I 
was  in  an  exceptional  position  and  saw  him  just  in  con- 
sequence of  it,  and  that  if  ever  he  recurred  to  that  sub- 
ject again  I  never  could  see  him  again  while  I  lived; 
and  he  believed  me  and  was  silent.  To  my  mind,  in- 
deed, it  was  a  bare  impulse — a  generous  man  of  quick 
sympathies  taking  up  a  sudden  interest  with  both  hands ! 
So  I  thought;  but  in  the  meantime  the  letters  and  the 
visits  rained  down  more  and  more,  and  in  every  one 
there  was  something  which  was  too  slight  to  analyse  and 
notice,  but  too  decided  not  to  be  understood;  so  that  at 
last,  when  the  "proposed  respect"  of  the  silence  gave 
way,  it  was  rather  less  dangerous.  So  then  I  showed 
him  how  he  was  throwing  into  the  ashes  his  best  affec- 
tions— how  the  common  gifts  of  youth  and  cheerfulness 
were  behind  me — how  I  had  not  strength,  even  of  heart, 
for  the  ordinary  duties  of  life — everything  I  told  him 
and  showed  him.  "Look  at  this — and  this — and  this," 


Mi.  40]        ELIZABETH   B.   BROWNING  397 

throwing  down  all  my  disadvantages.  To  which  he  did 
not  answer  by  a  single  compliment,  but  simply  that  he 
had  not  then  to  choose,  and  that  I  might  be  right  or  he 
might  be  right,  he  was  not  there  to  decide;  but  that  he 
loved  me  and  should  to  his  last  hour:  He  said  that  the 
freshness  of  youth  had  passed  with  him  also,  and  that  he 
had  studied  the  world  out  of  books  and  seen  many  women, 
yet  had  never  loved  one  until  he  had  seen  me.  That  he 
knew  himself,  and  knew  that,  if  ever  so  repulsed,  he 
should  love  me  to  his  last  hour — it  should  be  first  and 
last.  At  the  same  time,  he  would  not  tease  me,  he  would 
wait  twenty  years  if  I  pleased,  and  then,  if  life  lasted 
so  long  for  both  of  us,  then  when  it  was  ending  perhaps, 
I  might  understand  him  and  feel  that  I  might  have 
trusted  him.  For  my  health,  he  had  believed  when  he 
first  spoke  that  I  was  suffering  from  an  incurable  injury 
of  the  spine,  and  that  he  never  could  hope  to  see  me 
stand  up  before  his  face,  and  he  appealed  to  my  womanly 
sense  of  what  a  pure  attachment  should  be — whether  such 
a  circumstance,  if  it  had  been  true,  was  inconsistent  with 
it.  He  preferred,  he  said,  of  free  and  deliberate  choice, 
to  be  allowed  to  sit  only  an  hour  a  day  by  my  side,  to 
the  fulfilment  of  the  brightest  dream  which  should  ex- 
clude me,  in  any  possible  world. 

I  tell  you  so  much,  my  ever  dear  friend,  that  you  may 
see  the  manner  of  man  I  have  had  to  do  with,  and  the 
sort  of  attachment  which  for  nearly  two  years  has  been 
drawing  and  winning  me.  I  know  better  than  any  in  the 
world,  indeed,  what  Mr.  Kenyon  once  unconsciously  said 
before  me — that  "Robert  Browning  is  great  in  every- 
thing." Then,  when  you  think  how  this  element  of  an 
affection  so  pure  and  persistent,  cast  into  my  dreary  life, 
must  have  acted  on  it — how  little  by  little  I  was  drawn 
into  the  persuasion  that  something  was  left,  and  that 
still  I  could  do  something  to  the  happiness  of  another — 
and  he  what  he  was,  for  I  have  deprived  myself  of  the 
privilege  of  praising  him — then  it  seemed  worth  while  to 
take  up  with  that  unusual  energy  (for  me!),  expended  in- 
vain  last  year,  the  advice  of  the  physicians  that  I  should 
go  to  a  warm  climate  for  the  winter.  Then  came  the 
Pisa  conflict  of  last  year.  For  years  I  had  looked  with 
a  sort  of  indifferent  expectation  towards  Italy,  knowing 


398  ELIZABETH   B.   BROWNING        [^Et.  40 

and  feeling  that  I  should  escape  there  the  annual  relapse, 
yet,  with  that  laisser  oiler  manner  which  had  become  a 
habit  to  me,  unable  to  form  a  definite  wish  abo.ut  it. 
But  last  year,  when  all  this  happened  to  me,  and  I  was 
better  than  usual  in  the  summer,  I  wished  to  make  the 
experiment — to  live  the  experiment  out,  and  see  whether 
there  was  hope  for  me  or  not  hope.  Then  came  Dr. 
Chambers,  with  his  encouraging  opinion.  "I  wanted  sim- 
ply a  warm  climate  and  air"  he  said;  "I  might  be  well  if 
I  pleased."  Followed  what  you  know — or  do  not  pre- 
cisely know — the  pain  of  it  was  acutely  felt  by  me;  for 
I  never  had  doubted  but  that  papa  would  catch  at  any 
human  chance  of  restoring  my  health.  I  was  under  the 
delusion  always  that  the  difficulty  of  making  such  trials 
lay  in  me,  and  not  in  him.  His  manner  of  acting  towards 
me  last  summer  was  one  of  the  most  painful  griefs  of 
my  life,  because  it  involved  a  disappointment  in  the  af- 
fections: My  dear  father  is  a  very  peculiar  person.  He 
is  naturally  stern,  and  has  exaggerated  notions  of  au- 
thority, but  these  things  go  with  high  and  noble  qualities ; 
and  as  for  feeling,  the  water  is  under  the  rock,  and  I 
had  faith.  Yes,  and  have  it.  I  admire  such  qualities 
as  he  has — fortitude,  integrity.  I  loved  him  for  his 
courage  in  adverse  circumstances  which  were  yet  felt  by 
him  more  literally  than  I  could  feel  them.  Always  he 
has  had  .the  greatest  power  over  my  heart,  because  I  am 
of  those  weak  women  who  reverence  strong  men.  By  a 
word  he  might  have  bound  me  to  him  hand  and  foot. 
Never  has  he  spoken  a  gentle  word  to  me  or  looked  a  kind 
look  which  has  not  made  in  me  large  results  of  gratitude, 
and  throughout  my  illness  the  sound  of  his  step  on  the 
stairs  has  had  the  power  of  quickening  my  pulse — I  have 
loved  him  so  and  love  him.  Now  if  he  had  said  last  sum- 
mer that  he  was  reluctant  for  me  to  leave  him — if  he 
had  even,  allowed  me  to  think  by  mistake  that  his  affec- 
tion for  me  was  the  motive  of  such  reluctance — I  was 
ready  to  give  up  Pisa  in  a  moment,  and  I  told  him  as 
much.  Whatever  my  new  impulses  towards  life  were,  my 
love  for  him  (taken  so)  would  have  resisted  all — I  loved 
him  so  dearly.  But  his  course  was  otherwise,  quite  other- 
wise, and  I  was  wounded  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart — 
cast  off  when  I  was  ready  to  cling  to  him.  In  the  mean- 


^Et.  40]        ELIZABETH   B.   BROWNING  399 

while,  at  my  side  was  another;  I  was  driven  and  I  was 
drawn.     Then   at   last  I   said,    "If  you   like   to   let   this 
winter  decide  it,  you  may.     I  will  allow  of  no  promises 
nor  engagement.     I  cannot  go  to  Italy,  and  I  know,  as 
nearly  as  a  human  creature  can  know  any  fact,  that  I 
shall  be  ill  again  through  the  influence  of  this  English 
winter.     If  I  am,  you  w-ill  see  plainer  the  foolishness  of 
this  persistence;  if  I  am  not,  I  will  do  what  you  please." 
And  his  answer  was,  "If  you  are  ill  and  keep  your  resolu- 
tion of  not  marrying  me  under  those  circumstances,   I 
will  keep  mine  and  love  you  till  God  shall  take  us  both." 
.  This  was  in  last  autumn,  and  the  winter  came  with  its 
miraculous  mildness,  as  you  know,  and  I  was  saved  as  I 
dared  not  hope;  my  word  therefore  was  claimed  in  the 
spring.     Now  do  you  understand,  and  will  you  feel  for 
me?    An  application  to  my  father  was  certainly  the  obvi- 
\  ous  course,  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  peculiar  nature  and 
j|  my  peculiar  position.     But   there   is   no   speculation   in 
'  the  case;  it  is  a  matter  of  knoivledge  that  if  Robert  had 
applied  to  him  in  the  first  instance  he  would  have  been 
forbidden  the  house  without  a  moment's  scruple;  and  if 
in  the  last   (as  my  sisters  thought  best  as  a  respectable 
form),  I  should  have  been  incapacitated  from  any  after- 
exertion  by  the  horrible  scenes  to  which,  as  a  thing  of 
i  course,  I  should  have  been  exposed.     Papa  will  not  bear 
some  subjects,  it  is  a  thing  known;  his  peculiarity  takes 
that  ground  to  the  largest.     Not  one  of  his  children  will 
ever  marry  without  a  breach,  which  we  all  know,  though 
|  he  probably  does  not — deceiving-  himself  in  a  setting  up  of 
I  obstacles,  whereas  the  real  obstacle  is  in  his  own  mind. 
I  In  my  case  there  was,  or  would  have  been,  a  great  deal 
I  of  apparent  reason  to  hold'  by ;   my  health  would  have 
i  been  motive  enough — ostensible  motive.     I  see  that  pre- 
i  cisely  as  others  may  see  it.     Indeed,  if  I  were  charged 
I  now  with  want  of  generosity   for   casting  myself   so,    a 
|  dead   burden,   on   the   man   I   love,   nothing   of   the   sort 
{  could  surprise  me.     It  was  what  occurred  to  myself,  that 
thought  was,   and  what  occasioned   a  long  struggle  and 
months  of  agitation,  and  which  nothing  could  have  over- 
come  but  the  very  uncommon   affection   of  a  very   un- 
common person,  reasoning  out  to  me  the  great  fact  of 
love  making  its  own  level.     As  to  vanity  and  selfishness 


400  ELIZABETH   B.   BKOWNING        [Mt.  40 

blinding  me,  certainly  I  may  have  made  a  mistake,  and 
the  future  may  prove  it,  but  still  more  certainly  I  was  not 
blinded  so.  On  the  contrary,  never  have  I  been  more 
humbled,  and  never  less  in  danger  of  considering  any 
personal  pitiful  advantage,  than  throughout  this  affair. 
You,  who  are  generous  and  a  woman,  will  believe  this 
of  me,  even  if  you  do  not  comprehend  the  habit  I  had 
fallen  into  of  casting  aside  the  consideration  of  possible 
happiness  of  my  own.  But  I  was  speaking  of  papa. 
Obvious  it  was  that  the  application  to  him  was  a  mere 
form.  I  knew  the  result  of  it.  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  act  upon  my  full  right  of  taking  my  own  way.  I  had 
long  believed  such  an  act  (the  most  strictly  personal  act 
of  one's  life)  to  be  within  the  rights  of  every  person  of 
mature  age,  man  or  woman,  and  I  had  resolved  to  exer- 
cise that  right  in  my  own  case  by  a  resolution  which 
had  slowly  ripened.  All  the  other  doors  of  life  were 
shut  to  me,  and  shut  me  in  as  in  a  prison,  and  only 
before  this  door  stood  one  whom  I  loved  best  and  who 
loved  me  best,  and  who  invited  me  out  through  it  for 
the  good's  sake  which  he  thought  I  could  do  him.  Now 
if  for  the  sake  of  the  mere  form  I  had  applied  to  my 
father,  and  if,  as  he  would  have  done  directly,  he  had 
set  up  his  "curse"  against  the  step  I  proposed  to  take, 
would  it  have  been  doing  otherwise  than  placing  a  knife 
in  his  hand  ?  A  few  years  ago,  merely  through  the  rever- 
beration of  what  he  said  to  another  on  a  subject  like 
this,  I  fell  On  the  floor  in  a  fainting  fit,  and  was  almost 
delirious  afterwards.  I  cannot  bear  some  words.  I  would 
much  rather  have  blows  without  them.  In  my  actual 
state  of  nerves  and  physical  weakness,  it  would  have  been 
the  sacrifice  of  my  whole  life — of  my  convictions,  of  my 
affections,  and,  above  all,  of  what  the  person  dearest  to 
me  persisted  in  calling  his  life,  and  the  good  of  it — if  I 
had  observed  that  "form."  Therefore,  wrong  or  right,  I 
determined  not  to  observe  it,  and,  wrong  or  right,  I  did 
and  do  consider  that  in  not  doing  so  I  sinned  against  no 
duty.  That  I  was  constrained  to  act  clandestinely,  and 
did  not  choose  to  do  so,  God  is  witness,  and  will  set 
it  down  as  my  heavy  misfortune  and  not  my  fault.  Also, 
up  to  the  very  last  act  we  stood  in  the  light  of  day  for 
the  whole  world,  if  it  pleased,  to  judge  us.  I  never  saw 


^Et.  40]        ELIZABETH   B.   BROWNING  401 

him  out  of  the  Wimpole  Street  house ;  he  came  twice  a 
week  to  see  me — or  rather,  three  times  in  the  fortnight, 
openly  in  the  sight  of  all,  and  this  for  nearly  two  years, 
and  neither  more  nor  less.  Some  jests  used  to  be  passed 
upon  us  by  my  brothers,  and  I  allowed  them  without  a 
word,  but  it  would  have  been  infamous  in  me  to  have 
taken  any  into  my  confidence  who  would  have  suffered, 
as  a  direct  consequence,  a  blighting  of  his  own  prospects. 
My  secrecy  towards  them  all  was  my  simple  duty  towards 
them  all,  and  what  they  call  want  of  affection  was  an 
affectionate  consideration  for  them.  My  sisters  did  in- 
deed know  the  truth  to  a  certain  point.  They  knew  of  the 
attachment  and  engagement— ^1  could  not  help  that — but 
the  whole  of  the  event  I  kept  from  them  with  a  strength 
and  resolution  which  really  I  did  not  know  to  be  in  me, 
and  of  which  nothing  but  a  sense  of  the  injury  to  be 
done  to  them  by  a  fuller  confidence,  and  my  tender 
gratitude  and  attachment  to  them  for  all  their  love  and 
goodness,  could  have  rendered  me  capable.  Their  faith 
in  me/  and  undeviating  affection  for  me,  I  shall  be 
grateful  for  to  the  end  of  my  existence,  and  to  the  extent 
of  my  power  of  feeling  gratitude.  My  dearest  sisters! — 
especially,  let  me  say,  my  own  beloved  Arabel,  who,  with 
no  consolation  except  the  exercise  of  a  most  generous 
tenderness,  has  looked  only  to  what  she  considered  my 
good — never  doubting  me,  never  swerving  for  one  instant 
in  her  love  for  me.  May  God  reward  her  as  I  cannot. 
Dearest  Henrietta  loves  me  too,  but  loses  less  in  me,  and 
has  reasons  for  not  misjudging  me.  But  both  my  sisters 
have  been  faultless  in  their  bearing  towards  me,  and 
never  did  I  love  them  so  tenderly  as  I  love  them  now. 

The  only  time  I  met  R.  B.  clandestinely  was  in  the 
parish  church,  where  we  were  married  before  two  wit- 
nesses— it  was  the  first  and  only  time.  I  looked,  he  says, 
more  dead  than  alive,  and  can  well  believe  it,  for  I  all 
but  fainted  on  the  way,  and  had  to  stop  for  sal  volatile 
at  a  chemist's  shop.  The  support  through  it  all  was 
my  trust  in  him,  for.  no  woman  who  ever  committed  a 
like  act  of  trust  has  had  stronger  motives  to  hold  by. 
Now  may  I  not  tell  you  that  his  genius,  and  all  but 
miraculous  attainments,  are  the  least  things  in  him,  the 
moral  nature  being  of  the  very  noblest,  as  all  who  ever 


402  ELIZABETH   B.    BKOWNING        [Mt.  40 

knew  him  admit?  Then  he  has  had  that  wide  experience 
of  men  which  ends  by  throwing  the  mind  back  on  itself 
and  God;  there  is  nothing  incomplete  in  him,  except  as 
all  humanity  is  incompleteness,  the  only  wonder  is  how 
such  a  man,  whom  any  woman  could  have  loved,  should 
have  loved  me;  but  men  of  genius,  you  know,  are  apt  to 
love  with  their  imagination.  Then  there  is  something  in 
the  sympathy,  the  strange  straight  sympathy  which  unites 
us  on  all  subjects.  If  it  were  not  that  I  look  up  to  him, 
we  should  be  too  alike  to  be  together  perhaps,  but  I  know 
my  place  better  than  he  does,  who  is  too  humble.  Oh, 
you  cannot  think  how  well  we  get  on  after  six  weeks 
of  marriage.  If  I  suffer  again  it  will  not  be  through 
him.  Some  day,  dearest  Mrs.  Martin,  I  will  show  you 
and  dear  Mr.  Martin  how  his  prophecy  was  fulfilled,,  sav- 
ing some  picturesque  particulars.  I  did  not  know  before 
that  Saul  was  among  the  prophets. 

My  -poor  husband  -suffered  very  much  from  the  con- 
straint imposed  on  him  by  my  position,  and  did,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  for  my  sake  do  that  in  secret  which 
he  could  not  speak  upon  the  housetops.  Mea  culpa  all 
of  it!  If  one  of  us  two  is  to  be  blamed,  it  is  I,  at  whose 
representation  of  circumstances  he  submitted  to  do  vio- 
lence to  his  own  self-respect.  I  would  not  suffer  him  to 
tell  even  our  dear  common  friend  Mr.  Kenyon.  I  felt 
that  it  would  be  throwing  on  dear  Mr.  Kenyon  a  painful 
responsibility,  and  involve  him  in  the  blame  ready  to  fall. 
And  dear  dear  Mr.  Kenyon,  like  the  noble,  generous 
friend  I  love  so  deservedly,  comprehends  all  at  a  word, 
sends  us  not  his  forgiveness,  but  his  sympathy,  his  affec- 
tion, the  kindest  words  which  can  be  written!  I  cannot 
tell  you  all  his  inexpressible  kindness  to  us  both.  He 
justifies  us  to  the  uttermost,  and,  in  that,  all  the  grateful 
attachment  we  had,  each  on  our  side,  so  long  professed 
towards  him.  Indeed,  in  a  note  I  had  from  him  yester- 
day, he  uses  this  strong  expression  after  gladly  speaking 
of  our  successful  journey:  "I  considered  that  you  had 
perilled  your  life  upon  this  undertaking,  and,  reflecting 
upon  your  last  position,  I  thought  that  you  had  done  well." 
"But  my  life  was  not  perilled  in  the  journey.  The  agita- 
tion and  fatigue  were  evils,  to  be  sure,  and  Mrs.  Jameson, 
who  met  us  in  Paris  by  a  happy  accident,  thought  me 


Mt.  40]        ELIZABETH   B.    BROWNING  403 

"looking  horribly  ill"  at  first,  and  persuaded  us  to  rest 
there  for  a  week  on  the  promise  of  accompanying  us 
herself  to  Pisa  "to  help  Robert  to  take  care  of  me.  He, 
who  was  in  a  fit  of  terror  about  me,  agreed  at  once,  and 
so  she  came  with  us,  she  and  her  young  niece,  and  her 
kindness  leaves  us  both  very  grateful.  So  kind  she  was, 
and  is — for  still  she  is  in  Pisa — opening  her  arms  to  us 
and  calling  us  "children  of  light"  instead  of  ugly  names, 
and  declaring  that  she  should  have  been  "proud"  to  have 
had  anything  to  do  with  our  marriage.  Indeed,  we  hear 
every  day  kind  speeches  and  messages  from  people  such 
as  Mr.  Chorley  of  the  "Athenaeum,"  who  "has  tears  in 
his  eyes,"  Monckton  Milnes,  Barry  Cornwall,  and  other 
friends  of  my  husband's,  but  who  only  know  me  by  my 
books,  and  I  want  the  love  and  sympathy  of  those  who 
love  me  and  whom  I  love.  I  was  talking  of  the  influence 
of  the  journey.  The  change  of  air  has  done  me  wonderful 
good  notwithstanding  the  fatigue,  and  I  am  renewed  to 
the  point  of  being  able  to  throw  off  most  of  my  invalid 
habits,  and  of  walking  quite  like  a  woman.  Mrs.  Jame- 
son said  the  other  day,  "You  are  not  improved,  you  are 
transformed."  We  have  most  comfortable  rooms  here  at 
Pisa,  and  have  taken  them  for  six  months,  in  the  best 
situation  for  health,  and  close  to  the  Duomo  and  Leaning 
Tower.  It  is  a  beautiful,  solemn  city,  and  we  have  made 
acquaintance  with  Professor  Ferucci,  who  is  about  to 
admit  us  to  [a  sight]  of  the  [University  Lib]rary.  We 
shall  certainly  [spend]  next  summer  in  Italy  somewhere, 
and  [talk]  of  Rome  for  the  next  winter,  but,  of  course, 
this  is  all  in  air.  Let  me  hear  from  you,  dearest  Mrs. 
Martin,  and  direct  "M.  Browning,  Poste  Restante,  Pisa" 
— it  is  best.  Just  before  we  left  Paris  I  wrote  to  my 
aunt  Jane,  and  from  Marseilles  to  Bummy,  but  from 
neither  have  I  heard  yet. 

With  best  love  to  dearest  Mr.   Martin,  ever  both  my 
dear  kind  friends, 

Your  affectionate  and  grateful 

BA. 


404  ELIZABETH   B.    BROWNING        [^Et.  46 

[  Mi.  46] 

To    MlSS    MlTFORD 

[GEORGE  SAND] 

138  AVENUE  DBS  CH.-ELYSEES, 
April  7,  1852. 

What  a  time  seems  to  have  passed  since  I  wrote  to  you, 
my  ever  loved  friend.  Again  and  again  I  have  been  on 
the  point  of  writing,  and  something  has  stopped  me  al- 
ways. I  have  wished  to  wait  till  I  had  more  about  this 
and  that  to  gossip  of,  and  so  the  time  went  on.  Now  I 
am  getting  impatient  to  have  news  of  you,  and  to  learn 
whether  the  lovely  spring  has  brought  you  any  good  yet 
as  to  health  and  strength.  Don't  take  vengeance  on  my 
silence,  but  write,  write.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  want  to  see  Beranger,  and  so  does  Robert.  George 
Sand  we  came,  to  know  a  great  deal  more  of.  I  think 
Robert  saw  her  six  times.  Once  he  met  her  near  the 
Tuileries,  offered  her  his  arm,  and  walked  with  her  the 
whole  length  of  the  gardens.  She  was  not  on  that  occa- 
sion looking  as  well  as  usual,  being  a  little  too  much 
"endimanchee"  in  terrestrial  lavenders  and  super-celestial 
blues — not,  in  fact,  dressed  with  the  remarkable  taste 
which  he  has  seen  in  her  at  other  times.  Her  usual  cos- 
tume is  both  pretty  and  quiet,  and  the  fashionable  waist- 
coat and  jacket  (which  are  a  spectacle  in  all  the  "Ladies' 
Companions"  of  the  day)  make  the  only  approach  to 
masculine  wearings  to  be  observed  in  her.  She  has  great 
nicety  and  refinement  in  her  personal  ways,  I  think,  and 
the  cigarette  is  really  a  feminine  weapon  if  properly  un- 
derstood. Ah,  but  I  didn't  see  her  smoke.  I  was  unfor- 
tunate. I  could  only  go  with  Robert  three  times  to  her 
house,  and  once  she  was  out.  He  was  really  very  good 
and  kind  to  let  me  go  at  all,  after  he  found  the  sort  of 
society  rampant  around  her.  He  didn't  like  it  extremely, 
but,  being  the  prince  of  husbands,  he  was  lenient  to  my 
desires  and  yielded  the  point.  She  seems  to  live  in  the 
abomination  of  desolation,  as  far  as  regards  society — 
crowds  of  ill-bred  men  who  adore  her  a  genoux  bas,  betwixt 
a  puff  of  smoke  and  an  ejection  of  saliva.  Society  of  the 
ragged  Red  diluted  with  the  lower  theatrical.  She  her- 
self so  different,  so  apart,  as  alone  in  her  melancholy 


46]        ELIZABETH   B.   BROWNING  405 

disdain!  I  was  deeply  interested  in  that  poor  woman,  I 
felt  a  profound  compassion  for  her.  I  did  not  mind  much 
the  Greek  in  Greek  costume  who  tutoyed  her,  and  kissed 
her,  I  believe,  so  Robert  said;  or  the  other  vulgar  man 
of  the  theatre  who  went  down  on  his  knees  and  called  her 
"sublime."  "Caprice  d'amitie,"  said  she,  with  her  quiet, 
gentle  scorn.  A  noble  woman  under  the  mud,  be  certain. 
I  would  kneel  down  to  her,  too,  if  she  would  leave  it  all, 
throw  it  off,  and  be  herself  as  God  made  her.  But  she 
would  not  care  for  my  kneeling;  she  does  not  care  for 
me.  Perhaps  she  doesn't  care  for  anybody  by  this  time — 
who  knows  ?  She  wrote  one,  or  two,  or  three  kind  notes- 
to  me,  and  promised  to  "venir  m'embrasser"  before  she 
left  Paris;  but  she  did  not  come.  We  both  tried  hard 
to  please  her,  and  she  told  a  friend  of  ours  that  she 
"liked  us";  only  we  always  felt  that  we  couldn't  pene- 
trate— couldn't  really  touch  her — it  was  all  vairi.  Her 
play  failed,  though  full  of  talent.  It  didn't  draw,  and 
was  withdrawn  accordingly.  I  wish  she  would  keep  to 
her  romances,  in  which  her  real  power  lies.  .  .  . 

Alfred  De  Musset  was  to  have  been  at  M.  Buloz's,  where 
Robert  was  a  week  ago,  on  purpose  to  meet  him,  but  he 
was  prevented  in  some  way.  His  brother,  Paul  De  Musset, 
a  very  different  person,  was  there  instead — but  we  hope 
to  have  Alfred*  on  another  occasion.  Do  you  know  his 
poems?  He  is  not  capable  of  large  grasps,  but  he  has 
poet's  life  and  blood  in  him,  I  assure  you.  He  is  said  to 
be  at  the  feet  of  Rachel  just  now,  and  a  man  may  nearly 
as  well  be  with  a  tigress  in  a  cage.  He  began  with  the 
Princess  Belgiojoso — followed  George  Sand — Rachel  fin- 
ishes, is  likely  to  finish  in  every  sense.  In  the  intervals 
he  plays  at  chess.  There's  the  anatomy  of  a  man!  . 

•We  are  expecting  a  visit  from  Lamartine,  who  does  a 
great  deal  of  honour  to  both  of  us,  it  appears,  in  the 
way  of  appreciation,  and  is  kind  enough  to  propose  to 
come.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it. 

But  now  tell  me.  Oh,  I  want  so  to  hear  how  you  are. 
Better,  stronger,  I  hope  and  trust.  How  does  the  new 
house  and  garden  look  in  the  spring?  Prettier  and  pret-. 
tier,  I  dare  say.  .  .  . 

.  The  dotation  of  the  President  is  enormous  certainly, 
and  J  wish  for  his  own  sake  it  had  been  rather  more 


406  EDWARD    LEAR  [&t.  35 

moderate.     Now  I   must   end  here.     Post  hour  strikes. 
God  bless  you. 

Do  love  me  as  much  as  you  can,  always,  and  think  how 
I  am  your  ever  affectionate 

BA. 

Our  darling  is  well;  thank  God. 


[^Et.35]  EDWARD   LEAR 

1812-1888 

To  CHICHESTER  FORTESCUE 
[LIFE  IN  ROME] 

107  2oo  VIA  FELICI,  ROMA, 

Feby.  12,  1848. 

Your  letter  of  Oct.  25th  1847,  ought  to  have  been  an- 
swered before  now,  &  I  have  been  going  to  do  so  ever 
since  I  had  it,  but  I  have  said  to  myself  "what's  the  use 
of  writing  to-day  when  you  haven't  20  minutes — or  to-day 
when  you've  got  the  toothache,  or  to-day  when  you  are 
so  cross?  Fortescue  won't  thank  you  for  a  stupid  letter, 
particularly  as  his  was  so  very  amusing,  so  you'd  better 
wait  you  had.  And  so  I  have  till  I'm  ashamed  of  the 
delay  and  therefore  I'll  send  off  note  18th  be  the  letter 
of  what  degree  of  badness  it  may.  First  glancing  over 
your  bi-sheeted  epistle — thank  you  for  your  introduction 
to  Baring:  he  is  an  extremely  luminous  &  amiable  brick, 
and  I  like  him  very  much,  &  I  suppose  he  likes  me  or  he 
wouldn't  take  the  trouble  of  knocking  me  up  as  he  does, 
considering  the  lot  of  people  he  might  take  to  instead. 
We  have  been  out  once  or  twice  in  the  Campagna,  and 
go  to  Mrs.  Sartoris,  or  other  evening  popular  approxima- 
tions together.  He  would  draw;  very  well,  and  indeed 
does,  but  has  little  practice.  Altogether  he  is  one  of  the 
best  specimens  of  young  English  here  this  winter,  tho' 
there  is  a  tolerably  good  sprinkling  of  elect  &  rational 
beings  too.  In  fact  it  is  a  propitious  season,  the  rumours 
of  distraction  prevented  a  many  nasty  vulgar  people  from 
coming,  and  there  is  really  room  to  move.  Among  fam- 
ilies, Greys,  Herberts,  Olives  stand  promiscuous ;  of  young 
ladies,  Miss  W.  Horton,  &  Miss  Lindsay  are  first,  to  my 


Mt.  35]  EDWAKD   LEAK  407 

taste,  &  of  married  ones,  Mrs.  G.  Herbert  &  Mrs.  Clive, — 
then  Lady  W.  is  admired  though  by  me  not:  she  is  so 
like  a  wren,  I'm  sure  she  must  turn  into  a  wren  when 
she  dies.  The  variety  of  foreign  society  is  delightful, 
particularly  with  long  names:  e.g.,  Madame  Pul-itz-neck- 
off — and  Count  Bigenouff; — Baron  Polysuky,  &  Mons. 
Pig: — I  never  heard  such  a  list.  I  am  afraid  to  stand 
near  a  door,  lest  the  announced  names  should  make  me 
grin. — Then  there  is  a  Lady  Mary  Ross,  and  a  most  gigan- 
tic daughter — whom  Italians  wittily  call  "the  great  Ross- 
child,"  and  her  mama,  "Rosso-antico."  ...  I  miss  thq 
Gordon's  and  my  old  kind  friend  Lady  S.  Percy  sadly,  $ 
somehow  the  6  &  30-ness  of  my  sentiments  and  constitu- 
tion make  me  rather  graver  than  of  old: — also,  the  un- 
certainty of  matters  here  and  everywhere,  and  my  own 
unfixedness  of  plans,  conspire  to  make  me  more  unstable 
&  ass-like  than  usual.  .  .  . 

And  now  regarding  yourself,  I  heard  all  about  your 
Greek  tour  with  interest,  and  that  you  were  returned  to 
England  and  for  Louth,  as  you  will  have  found  by  a  dis- 
gusting little  letter  I  sent  you  at  the  end  of  last  October. 
The  most  important  part  of  your  letter  seems  to  me  that 
which  gives  me  news  of  your  being  so  rich  a  man : — I 
can  only  say  I  am  sincerely  glad  of  it,  and  I  don't  flatter 
you  when  I  say  I  believe  you  will  make  as  good  a  use  of 
your  money  as  anybody.  I  long  to  know  how  you  like 
your  new  parliamentary  life: — (Do  you  know  a  friend 
of  mine,  Bonham  Carter  M.P.  for  Winchester?  This 
reminds  me  of  "Have  you  been  in  India?"  "Yes."  "O 
then  do  you  know  my  friend  Mr.  Jones?")  So  pray  let 
me  hear  from  you.  .  .  . 

Now  I  am  at  the  end  of  replying  to  your  letter,  and  a 
very  jolly  one  it  is.  So  I  must  e'en  turn  over  another 
stone  as  the  sandpiper  said  when  he  was  alooking  for 
vermicules.  You  ask  what  I  am  about;  making  of  little 
paintings,  one  for  Ld.  Canning  etc.  etc.,  and  one  of  a 
bigger  growth  for  Ld.  Ward,  but  I  am  in  a  disturbidous 
state  along  of  my  being  undecided  as  to  how  I  shall  go 
on  with  art,  knowing  that  figure  drawing  is  that  which  I 
know  least  of  &  yet  is  the  "crown  and  roof  of  things." 
I  have  a  plan  of  going  to  Bowen  at  Corfu  and  thence 
Archipelago  or  Greeceward,  (Greece  however  is  in  a  very 


408  EDWARD   LEAR  [Mi.  54 

untravellable  state  just  now)  should  the  state  of  Italy  pre- 
vent niy  remaining  in  it  for  the  summer.  But  whether  I 
stop  here  to  draw  figure,  or  whether  I  go  to  Apulia  & 
Calabria,  or  whether  I  Archipelago  (V.  A.  Archipelago, 
P.  Archipelawent,  P.  P.  Archipelagone)  or  whatever  I 
do,  I  strongly  long  to  go  to  Egypt  for  the  next  winter 
as  ever  is,  if  so  be  as  I  can  find  a  sufficiency  of  tin  to 
allow  of  my  passing  4  or  5  months  there.  I  am  quite 
crazy  about  Memphis  &  On  &  Isis  &  crocodiles  and  oph- 
thalmia &  Nubians,  and  simooms  &  Sorcerers,  &  Sphin- 
gidoe.  Seriously  the  contemplation  of  Egypt  must  fill  the 
mind,  the  artistic  mind  I  mean,  with  great  food  for  the 
rumination  of  long  years.  I  have  a  strong  wish  also  to 
see  Syria,  &  Asia  Minor  and  all  sorts  of  grisogorious 
places,  but,  but,  who  can  tell?  You  see  therefore  in  how 
noxious  a  state  of  knownothingatallaboutwhatoneisgoing- 
todo-ness  I  am  in.  Yet  this  is  clear : — the  days  of  possible 
Lotus-eating  are  diminishing,  &  by  the  time  I  am  40  I 
would  fain  be  in  England  once  more.  .  .  . 

But  a  truce  to  growling  and  reflections.  I  should  have 
told  you  that  Bowen  has  written  to  me  in  the  kindest 
possible  manner,  asking  me  to  go  and  stay  with  him  at 
Corfu  and  I  shall  regret  if  I  can't  do  so.  I  wish  to 
goodness  I  was  a  polype  and  could  cut  myself  in  six  bits. 
I  wish  you  were  downstairs  in  that  little  room. 


[  JSt.  54] 

To  LADY  WALDEGRAVE 
["THERE  is  NO  SUCH  A  PERSON"] 

15,  STRATFORD  PLACE,  OXFORD  ST.,  W. 

17  October,  1866. 
My  dear  Lady  W  aide  grave, — 

It  is  orfle  cold  here,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I 
think  I  shall  go  to  Jibberolter,  passing  through  Spain, 
and  doing  Portigle  later.  After  all  one  isn't  a  potato — 
to  remain  always  in  one  place. 

A  few  days  ago  in  a  railway  as  I  went  to  my  sister's 
a  gentleman  explained  to  two  ladies,  (whose  children  had 
my  "Book  of  Nonsense,")  that  thousands  of  families  were 
grateful  to  the  author  (which  in  silence  I  agreed  to) 


Mt.  41]         JOHN   LOTHKOP    MOTLEY  409 

who  was  not  generally  known — but  was  really  Lord  Derby : 
and  now  came  a  showing  forth,  which  cleared  up  at  once 
to  my  mind  why  that  statement  has  already  appeared  in 
several  papers.  Edward  Earl  of  Derby  (said  the  Gen- 
tleman) did  not  choose  to  publish  the  book  openly,  but 
dedicated  it  as  you  see  to  his  relations,  and  now  if  you 
will  transpose  the  letters  LEAR,  you  will  read  simply 
EDWAED  EARL. — Says  I,  joining  spontanious  in  the 
conversation — "That  is  quite  a  mistake:  I  have  reason 
to  know  that  Edward  Lear  the  painter  and  author  wrote 
and  illustrated  the  whole  book."  "And  I,"  says  the  Gen- 
tleman, says  he — "have  good  reason  to  know,  Sir,  that  you 
are  wholly  mistaken.  There  is  no  such  a  person  as  Ed- 
ward Lear."  "But,"  says  I,  "there  is — and  I  am  the  man 
— and  I  wrote  the  book!"  Whereon  all  the  party  burst 
out  laughing  and  evidently  thought  me  mad  or  telling 
fibs.  So  I  took  off  my  hat  and  showed  it  all  round,, 
with  Edward  Lear  and  the  address  in  large  letters — also 
one*  of  my  cards,  and  a  marked  handkerchief:  on  which 
amazement  devoured  those  benighted  individuals  and  I 
left  them  to  gnash  their  teeth  in  trouble  and  tumult. 
Believe  me,  Dear  Lady  Waldegrave, 

Yours  sincerely, 
EDWARD  LEAR. 


[^Et.41]        JOHN    LOTHROP    MOTLEY 

1814-isrr 

To  HIS  WIFE 
[AN  INN  AT  DOVER] 

LONG'S  HOTEL, 

Thursday  morning,  October  18th,  1855. 
My  dearest  Mary, — 

I  write  these  few  lines  merely  to  tell  you  that  I  arrived 
sain  et  sauf  in  London  yesterday  forenoon  at  half-past 
ten.  I  crossed  the  Channel  at  three.  Th§  weather  was 
very  good,  and  the  sea  very  smooth.  The  ladies  on  board 
were  all  desperately  sea-sick,  much  to  my  astonishment, 
such  demonstrations  being  entirely  unauthorised  by  any 
of  the  circumstances.  I  stopped  at  Dover  for  the  night, 


410  JOHN   LOTHEOP    MOTLEY         [^Et.  41 

finding  it  very  ridiculous  to  hurry  up  to  London  at  mid- 
night, as  everybody  in  that  metropolis  was  likely  to  get 
on  very  well  without  me  till  the  following  morning.  The 
inn,  the  "Lord  Warden  Hotel,"  is  one  of  the  best  in 
England.  My  washing-stand  in  itself  was  enough  to  in- 
spire one  with  veneration  for  the  whole  British  nation; 
two  great  water  jugs  as  big  as  those  in  the  "Marriage  of 
Cana,"  by  Paolo  Veronese,  a  wash  basin  big  enough  to 
swim  in,  celestial  slop  jars,  heaps  of  clean  towels,  etc., 
and  more  water  than  was  ever  seen  in  one  place  in  Paris, 
except  in  the  E coles  de  Natation,  all  made  one  feel  very 
comfortable.  A  Frenchman  would  have  been  wretched, 
however,  for  there  were  not  two  clocks  or  even  four  mir- 
rors in  the  chamber,  but  I  solaced  myself  with  the  remem- 
brance of  the  splendour  I  had  left  in  Paris,  and  with  the 
potentiality  of  being  clean  a  few  brief  days  in  England. 
I  am  sorry,  however,  to  say  that  I  am  not  as  well  off 
here.  I  have  a  good  enough  bachelor  chamber,  but  it 
looks  like  a  hospital  for  invalided  or  incurable  furniture. 
The  bed  is  as  wide  as  Oxford  Street;  it  is  also  quite  as 
hard,  the  mattresses  being  evidently  stuffed  with  paving 
stones  from  that  classic  and  stony-hearted  step-mother.* 
I  stopped  at  Chapman's  on  my  way  up  from  the  railroad, 
so  commenced  business  sooner  than  if  I  had  not  slept  at 
Dover,  filled  up-  the  form  of  application  for  the  copyright, 
and  in  short  did  all  that  was  necessary  before  coming  to 
Long's.  We  have  decided  of  course  to  defer  actual  pub- 
licationf  till  the  other  (American  edition)  is  ready.  .  .  . 

Ever  your  own 

J.  L.  M. 

*  "Oxford    street,    stony-hearted    stepmother" — De    Quincey's    Confes- 
sions   of   an   English    Opium-Eater. 
Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 


.  44]         JOHN   LOTHKOP    MOTLEY  411 

44] 


To  HIS  WIFE 
[THACKERAY  AT  FORTY-SIX] 

LONDON, 

May    28th,    1858. 
My  dearest  Mary,  — 

7.  .  .  In  the  evening  I  dined  at  Mackintosh's.  The 
party  consisted  of  the  Sturgis's,  a  Mrs.  -  —  ,  of  whom 
I  know  nothing,  except  that  Thackeray  kept  saying,  as 
I  learned  afterwards,  all  dinner-time  to  Sturgis,  "I  hate 
that  woman!"  —  why  she  was  so  odious  I  have  not  yet 
been  informed,  as  she  seemed  as  harmless  as  a  dove  if 
not  as  wise  as  a  serpent.  The  others  were  Thackeray, 
Lord  Carlisle,  and  myself.  I  believe  you  have  never 
seen  Thackeray.  He  has  the  appearance  of  a  colossal  in- 
fant, smooth,  white,  shiny  ringlety  hair,  flaxen,  alas,  with 
advancing  years,  a  roundish  face,  with-  a  little  dab  of  a 
nose  upon  which  it  is  a  perpetual  wonder  how  he  keeps 
his  spectacles,  a  sweet  but  rather  piping  voice,  with  some- 
thing of  the  childish  treble  about  it,  and  a  very  tall, 
slightly  stooping  figure  —  such  are  the  characteristics  of 
the  great  "snob"  of  England.  His  manner  is  like  that 
of  everybody  else  in  England  —  nothing  original,  all 
planed  down  into  perfect  uniformity  with  that  of  his  fel- 
low-creatures. There  was  not  much  more  distinction  in 
his  talk  than  in  his  white  choker  or  black  coat  and  waist- 
coat. As  you  like  detail,  however,  I  shall  endeavour  to 
Boswellise  him  a  little,  but  it  is  very  hard  work.  Some- 
thing was  said  of  Carlyle  the  author.  Thackeray  said, 
"Carlyle  hates  everybody  that  has  arrived  —  if  they  are  on 
the  road,  he  may  perhaps  treat  them  civilly."  Mackin- 
tosh praised  the  description  in  the  "French-  Revolution" 
of  the  flight  of  the  King  and  Queen  (which  is  certainly 
one  of  the  most  living  pictures  ever  painted  with  ink), 
and  Thackeray  agreed  with  him,  and  spoke  of  the  pas- 
sages very  heartily.  Of  the  Cosmopolitan  Club,  Thack- 
eray said,  "Everybody  is  or  is  supposed  to  be  a  celebrity; 
nobody  ever  says  anything  worth  hearing  and  every  one 
goes  there  with  his  white  choker  at  midnight,  to  appear 
as  if  he  had  just  been  dining  with  the  aristocracy.  I 
have  no  doubt,"  he  added,  "that  half  of  us  put  on  the 


412  JOHN    LOTHKOP    MOKLEY         \_JEt.  44 

•white  cravat  after  a  solitary  dinner  at  home  or  at  our 
club,  and  so  go  down  among  the  Cosmopolitans."  .... 

Your  affectionate 

J.  L.  M. 
[^Et.  44] 

To  HIS  WIFE 

[DINING  WITH  MACAULAY  AT  THE  MACKINTOSHES'] 

LONDON, 

May  30th,  1858. 
My  dearest  Mary, — 

On  Monday  I  dined  with  the  Mackintoshes.  Macaulay, 
Dean  Milman,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farrar  composed  the 
party.  Of  course  you  would  like  a  photograph  of  Ma- 
caulay, as  faithfully  as  I  can  give  it.  He  impressed  me 
on  the  whole  agreeably.  To  me,  personally,  he  spoke 
courteously,  respectfully,  showed  by  allusion  to  the  sub- 
ject in  various  ways  that  he  was  quite  aware  of  my  book 
and  its  subject,  although  I  doubt  whether  he  had  read 
it.  He  may  have  done  so,  but  he  manifested  no  special 
interest  in  me.  I  believe  that  he  is  troubled  about  his 
health*  (having  a  kind  of  bronchial  or  asthmatic  cough), 
and  that  he  rarely  dines  out  now-a-days,  so  that  it  is 
perhaps  a  good  deal  of  a  compliment  that  he  came  on  this 
occasion  on  purpose  to  meet  me.  His  general  appearance 
is  singularly  commonplace.  I  cannot  describe  him  bet- 
ter than  by  saying  he  has  exactly  that  kind  of  face  and 
figure  which  by  no  possibility  would  be  selected,  out  of 
even  a  very  small  number  of  persons,  as  those  of  a  re- 
markable personage.  He  is  of  the  middle  height,  neither 
above  nor  below  it.  The  outline  of  his  face  in  profile  is 
rather  good.  The  nose,  very  slightly  aquiline,  is  well 
cut,  and  the  expression  of  the  mouth  and  chin  agreeable. 
His  hair  is  thin  and  silvery,  and  he  looks  a  good  deal 
older  than  many  men  of  his  years — for,  if  I  am  not  mis- 
taken, he  is  just  as  old  as  his  century,  like.  Cromwell, 
Balzac,  Charles  V.,  and  other  notorious  individuals.  Now 
those  two  impostors,  so  far  as  appearances  go,  Prescott 
and  Mignet,  who  are  sixty-two,  look  young  enough,  in 
comparison,  to  be  Macaulay's  sons.  The  face,  to  resume 
my  description,  seen  in  front,  is  blank,  and  as  it  were 

*  Macaulay  died  in  December  of  the  next  year. 


&t.  44]         JOHN   LOTHROP   MORLEY  413 

badly  lighted.  There  is  nothing  luminous  in  the  eye, 
nothing  impressive  in  the  brow.  The  forehead  is  spa- 
cious, but  it  is  scooped  entirely  away  in  the  region  where 
benevolence  ought  to  be,  while  beyond  rise  reverence, 
firmness  and  self-esteem,  like  Alps  on  Alps.  The  under 
eyelids  are  so  swollen  as  almost  to  close  the  eyes,  and 'it 
would  be  quite  impossible  to  tell  the  colour  of  those  orbs, 
and  equally  so,  from  the  neutral  tint  of  his  hair  and 
face,  to  say  of  what  complexion  he  had  originally  been. 
His  voice  is  agreeable,  and  its  intonations  delightful,  al- 
though that  is  so  common  a  gift  with  Englishmen  as  to 
be  almost  a  national  characteristic. 

As  usual,  he  took  up  the  ribands  of  the  conversation, 
and  kept  them  in  his  own  hand,  driving  wherever  it 
suited  him.  I  believe  he  is  thought  by  many  people  a 
bore^  and  you  remember  that  Sydney  Smith  spoke  of 
him  as  "our  Tom,  the  greatest  engine  of  social  oppres- 
sion in  England."  I  should  think  he  might  be  to  those 
who  wanted  to  talk  also.  I  can  imagine  no  better  fun 
than  to  have  Carlyle  and  himself  meet  accidentally  at 
the  same  dinner-table  with  a  small  company.  It  would 
be  like  two  locomotives,  each  with  a  long  train,  coming 
against  each  other  at  express  speed.  Both,  I  have  no 
doubt,  could  be  smashed  into  silence  at  the  first  collision. 
Macaulay,  however,  is  not  so  dogmatic,  or  so  outrage- 
ously absurd  as  Carlyle  often  is,  neither  is  he  half  so 
grotesque  or  amusing.  His  whole  manner  has  the  smooth- 
ness and  polished  surface  of  the  man  of  the  world,  the 
politician,  and  the  new  peer,  spread  over  the  man  of 
letters  within.  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  repeat  any  of 
his  conversation,  for  there  was  nothing  to  excite  very 
particular  attention  in  its  even  flow.  There  was  not  a 
touch  of  Holmes's  ever  bubbling  wit,  imagination,  en- 
thusiasm, and  arabesqueness.  It  is  the  perfection  of  the 
commonplace,  without  sparkle  or  flash,  but  at  the  same 
time  always  interesting  and  agreeable.  I  could  listen  to 
him  with  pleasure  for  an  hour  or  two  every  day,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  I  should  thence  grow  wiser  every  day,  for 
his  brain  is  full,  as  hardly  any  man's  ever  was,  and  his 
way  of  delivering  himself  is  easy  and  fluent.  .  .  . 

Yours  most  affectionately, 
J.  L.  M. 


23]  CHARLOTTE   BRONTE 

1816-1855 

To  ELLEN  NUSSEY 

[A  CURATE  PROPOSES] 

August  4th,  1839. 
My  dearest  Ellen, — 

The  Liverpool  journey  is  yet  a  matter  of  talk,  a  sort 
of  castle  in  the  air;  but,  between  you  and  me,  I  fancy 
it  is  very  doubtful  whether  it  will  ever  assume  a  more 
solid  shape.  Aunt,  like  many  other  elderly  people,  likes 
to  talk  of  such  things;  but  when  it  comes  to  putting 
them  into  practice,  she  rather  falls  off.  Such  being  the 
case,  I  think  you  and  I  had  better  adhere  to  our  first 
plan  of  going  somewhere  together,  independently  of 
other  people.  I  have  got  leave  to  accompany  you  f»r  a 
week, — at  the  utmost  stretch  a  fortnight.  Where  do  you 
wish  to  go?  Burlington,  I  should  think  from  what  Mary 
Taylor  says,  would  be  as  eligible  a  place  as  any.  When 
do  you  wish  to  set  off?  Arrange  all  these  things  accord- 
ing to  your  own  convenience;  I  shall  start  no  objections. 
The  idea  of  seeing  the  sea — of  being  near  it — watching 
its  changes  by  sunrise,  sunset,  moonlight,  and  noonday — 
in  calm,  perhaps  in  storm — fills  and  satisfies  my  mind. 
I  shall  be  discontented  at  nothing.  And  then  I  am  not 
to  be  with  a  set  of  people  with  whom  I  have  nothing  in 
common, — who  would  be  nuisances  and  bores;  but  with 
you,  Ellen  Nussey,  whom  I  like,  and  who  know  and  like 
me.  I  have  an  odd  circumstance  to  relate  to  you — pre- 
pare for  a  hearty  laugh!  The  other  day  Mr.  Hodgson, 
papa's  former  curate,  now  a  vicar,  came  over  to  spend 
the  day  with  us,  bringing  with  him  his  own  curate.  The 
latter  gentleman,  by  name,  Mr.  Bryce,  is  a  young  Irish 
clergyman,  fresh  from  Dublin  University.  It  was  the 
first  time  we  had  any  of  us  seen  him,  but  however,  after 
the  manner  of  his  countrymen,  he  soon  made  himself  at* 
home.  His  character  quickly  appeared  in  his  conversa- 
tion: witty,  lively,  ardent,  clever  too,  but  deficient  in  the 
dignity  and  discretion  of  an  Englishman.  At  home,  you 
know,  Ellen,  I  talk  with  ease,  and  am  never  shy,  never 
weighed  down  and  oppressed  by  that  miserable  mauvaise 
honte  which  torments  and  constrains  me  elsewhere.  So 

414 


^Et.  32]  CHARLOTTE   BRONTE  415 

I  conversed  with  this  Irishman  and  laughed  at  his  jests, 
and  though  I  saw  faults  in  his  character,  excused  them 
because  of  the  amusement  his  originality  afforded.  I 
cooled  a  little,  indeed,  and  drew  in  towards  the  latter 
part  of  the  evening,  because  he  began  to  season  his  con- 
versation with  something  of  Hibernian  flattery,  which  I 
did  not  quite  relish.  However,  they  went  away,  and  no 
more  was  thought  about  them.  A  few  days  after  I  got 
a  letter,  the  direction  of  which  puzzled  me,  it  being  in  a 
hand  I  was  not  accustomed  to  see.  Evidently,  it  was 
neither  from  you  nor  Mary  Taylor,  my  only  correspond- 
ents. Having  opened  and  read  it,  It  proved  to  be  a  decla- 
ration of  attachment  and  proposal  of  matrimony,  ex- 
pressed in  the  ardent  language  of  the  sapient  young 
Irishman !  Well !  thought  I,  I  have  heard  of  love  at  first 
sight,  but  this  beats  all.  I  leave  you  to  guess  what  my 
answer  would  be,  convinced  that  you  will  not  do  me  the 
injustice  of  guessing  wrong.  When  we  meet  I'll  show 
you  the  letter.  I  hope  you  are  laughing  heartily.  This 
is  not  like  one  of  my  adventures,  is  it  ?  It  more  resem- 
bles Martha  Taylor's.  I  am  certainly  doomed  to  be  an 
old  maid.  Never  mind,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  that  fate 
ever  since  I  was  twelve  years  old.  Write  soon. 

C.  BRONTE. 

[^Et.  32] 

To  ELLEN  NUSSEY 
[DARK  DAYS] 

October  9th,  '48. 
My  dear  Ellen, — 

I  should  have  written  to  yon  ere  now  had  I  been  sure 
of  your  address,  but  I  thought  by  this  you  had  proba- 
bly left  Rye,  as  you  talked  of  being  in  London  soon. 
The  past  three  weeks  have  been  a  dark  interval  in  our 
humble  home.  Branwell's  constitution  has  been  failing 
fast  all  the  summer;  but  still,  neithe"  the  doctors  nor 
himself  thought  him  so  near  his  end  as  he  was.  He  was 
entirely  confined  to  his  bed  for  but  one  single'  day,  and 
was  in  the  village  two  days  before  his  death.  He  died, 
after  twenty  minutes'  struggle,  on  Sunday  morning,  Sep- 
tember 24th.  He  was  perfectly  conscious  till  the  last 
agony  came  on.  His  mind  had  undergone  the  peculiar 


416  CHAKLOTTE   BKONTE  [JSt.  32 

change  which  frequently  precedes  death,  two  days  previ- 
ously; the  calm  of  better  feelings  filled  it;  a  return  of 
natural  affection  marked  his  last  moments.  He  is  in 
God's  hands  now;  and  the  All-powerful  is  likewise  the 
All-merciful.  A  deep  conviction  that  he  rests  at  last — 
rests  well  after  his  brief,  erring,  suffering,  feverish  life, 
fills  and  quiets  my  mind  now.  The  final  separation,  the 
spectacle  of  his  pale  corpse,  gave  more  acute,  bitter  pain 
than  I  could  have  imagined.  Till  the  last  hour  comes, 
we  never  know  how  much  we  can  forgive,  pity,  regret  a 
near  relation.  All  his  vices  were  and  are  nothing  now. 
We  remember  only  his  woes.  Papa  was  acutely  dis- 
tressed at  first,  but,  on  the  whole,  has  borne  the  event 
well.  Emily  and  Anne  are  pretty  well,  though  Anne  is 
always  delicate,  and  Emily  has  a  cold  and  cough  at 
present.  It  was  my  fate  to  sink  at  the  crisis,  when  I 
should  have  collected  my  strength.  Headache  and  sick- 
ness came  on  first  on  the  Sunday;  I  could  not  regain 
my  appetite.  Then  internal  pain  attacked  me.  I  became 
at  once  much  reduced.  It  was  impossible  to  eat  a  morsel. 
At  last,  bilious  fever  declared  itself.  I  was  confined  to 
bed  a  week  —  a  dreary  week,  but,  thank  God !  health 
seems  now  returning.  I  can  sit  up  all  day,  and  take 
moderate  nourishment.  The  doctor  said  at  first  I  should 
be  very  slow  in  recovering,  but  I  seem  to  get  on  faster 
than  he  anticipated.  I  am  ordered  to  be  scrupulously 
careful  about  diet,  etc.,  and  I  try  to  be  obedient  to  di- 
rections. 

I  shall  be  very  glad  to  hear  from  you  again,  dear  Ellen ; 
it  is  true  enough  that  your  letters  interest  me;  there  is 
no  mistake  there.  I  feel  that  I  do  not  write  to  you 
enough  in  detail,  but  I  cannot  help  it;  forgive  me  that 
shortcoming  as  you  have  forgiven  me  many  others. 

Yours  faithfully, 
C.  BRONTE. 

P.S. — You  are  to  understand  that  my  bilious  fever  is 
quite  gone  now  and  that  I  am  truly  much  better. 


.  35]  CHAELOTTE   BRONTE  417 

.  35] 


To  GEORGE  SMITH 
["HENRY  ESMOND";  THACKERAY'S  "CRUEL  KNIFE"] 

February  14th,  1852. 
My  dear  Sir,  — 

It  has  been  a  great  delight  to  me  to  read  Mr.  Thack- 
eray's work;  and  I  now  so  seldom  express  my  sense  of 
kindness  that,  for  once,  you  must  permit  me,  without 
rebuke,  to  thank  you  for  a  pleasure  so  rare  and  special. 
Yet  I  am  not  going  to  praise  either  Mr.  Thackeray  or 
his  book.  I  have  read,  enjoyed,  been  interested,  and, 
after  all,  feel  full  as  much  ire  and  sorrow  as  gratitude 
and  admiration.  And  still  one  can  never  lay  down  a 
book  of  his  without  the  last  two  feelings  having  their 
part,  be  the  subject  of  treatment  what  it  may.  In  the 
first  half  of  the  book  what  chiefly  struck  me  was  the 
wonderful  manner  in  which  the  writer  throws  himself 
into  the  spirit  and  letters  of  the  times  of  which  he  treats; 
the  allusions,  the  illustrations,  the  style,  all  seem  to  me 
so  masterly  in  their  exact  keeping,  their  harmonious  con- 
sistency, their  nice,  natural  truth,  their  pure  exemption 
from  exaggeration.  No  second-rate  imitator  can  write 
in  that  way;  no  coarse  scene-painter  can  charm  us  with 
an  allusion  so  delicate  and  perfect.  But  what  bitter 
satire,  what  relentless  dissection  of  diseased  subjects! 
Well,  and  this,  too,  is  right,  or  would  be  right,  if  the 
savage  surgeon  did  not  seem  so  fiercely  pleased  with  his 
work.  Thackeray  likes  to  dissect  an  ulcer  or  an  aneu- 
rism; he  has  pleasure  in  putting  his  cruel  knife  or  probe 
into  quivering  living  flesh.  Thackeray  would  not  like 
all  the  world  to  be  good;  no  great  satirist  would  like  so- 
ciety to  be  perfect. 

As  usual,  he  is  unjust  to  women,  quite  unjust.  There 
is  hardly  any  punishment  he  does  not  deserve  for  making 
Lady  Castlewood  peep  through  a  keyhole,  listen  at  a  door, 
and  be  jealous  of  a  boy  and  a  milkmaid.  Many  other 
things  I  noticed  that,  for  my  part,  grieved  and  exas- 
perated me  as  I  read;  but  then,  again,  came  passages  so 
true,  so  deeply  thought,  so  tenderly  felt,  one  could  not 
help  forgiving  and  admiring.  .  .  . 

But  I  wish  he  could  be  told  not  to  care  much  for  dwell- 


418  HENEY   DAVID    THOEEAU        [^Et.  25 

ing  on  the  political  or  religious  intrigues  of  the  times. 
Thackeray,  in  his  heart,  does  not  value  political  or  re- 
ligious intrigues  of  any  age  or  date.  He  likes  to  show 
us  human  nature  at  home,  as  he  himself  daily  sees  it; 
his  wonderful  observant  faculty  likes  to  be  in  action.  In 
him  this  faculty  is  a  sort  of  captain  and  leader;  and  if 
ever  any  passage  in  his  writings  lacks  interest,  it  is  when 
this  master-faculty  is  for  a  time  thrust  into  a  subordi- 
nate position.  I  think  such  is  the  case  in  the  former  half 
of  the  present  volume.  Towards  the  middle  he  throws 
off  restraint,  becomes  himself,  and  is  strong  to  the  close. 
Everything  now  depends  on  the  second  and  third  vol- 
umes. If,  in  pith  and  interest,  they  fall  short  of  the 
first,  a  true  success  cannot  ensue.  If  the  continuation  be 
an  improvement  upon  the  commencement,  if  the  stream 
gathers  force  as  it  rolls,  Thackeray"  will  triumph.  Some 
people  have  been  in  the  habit  of  terming  him  the  second 
writer  of  the  day;  it  just  depends  on  himself  whether  or 
not  these  critics  shall  be  justified  in  their  award.  He 
need  not  be  the  second.  God  made  him  second  to  no 
man.  If  I  were  he,  I  would  show  myself  as  I  am,  not  as 
critics  report  me;  at  any  rate  I  would  do  my  best.  Mr. 
Thackeray  is  easy  and  indolent,  and  seldom  cares  to  do 
his  best.  Thank  you  once  more;  and  believe  me  yours 
sincerely, 

C.  BRONTE. 


.  25]       HENEY   DAVID    THOEEAU 

1817-1862 
To  HIS  FATHER  AND  MOTHER 

["l   DO    NOT    LIKE    THEIR    CITIES"] 

CASTLETON,  STATEN  ISLAND,  May  11,  1843. 
Dear  Mother  and  Friends  at  Home, — 

We  arrived  here  safely  at  ten  o'clock  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing, having  had  as  good  passage  as  usual,  though  we  ran 
aground  and  were  detained  a  couple  of  hours  in  the 
Thames  Eiver,  till  the  tide  came  to  our  relief.  At  length 
we  curtseyed  up  to  a  wharf  just  the  other  side  of  their 
Castle  Garden, — very  incurious  about  them  and  their 
city.  I  believe  my  vacant  looks,  absolutely  inaccessible 


^Et.  25]         HENRY    DAVID    THOREAU  419 

to  questions,  did  at  length  satisfy  an  army  of  starving 
cabmen  that  I  did  not  want  a  hack,  cab,  or  anything  of 
that  sort  as  yet.  It  was  the  only  demand  the  city  made 
on  us;  as  if  a  wheeled  vehicle  of  some  sort  were  the  sum 
and  summit  of  a  reasonable  man's  wants.  "Having  tried 
the  water,"  they  seemed  to  say,  "will  you  not  return  to 
the  pleasant  securities  of  land  carriage?  Else  why  your 
boat's  prow  turned  toward  the  shore  at  last?"  They  are 
a  sad-looking  set  of  fellows,  not  permitted  to  come  on 
board,  and  I  pitied  them.  They. had  been  expecting  me, 
it  would  seem,  and  did  really  wish  that  I  should  take  a 
cab;  though  they  did  not  seem  rich  enough  to  supply  me 
with  one. 

It  was  a  confused  jumble  of  heads  and  soiled  coats, 
dangling  from  flesh-colored  faces, — all  swaying  to  and 
fro,  as  by  a  sort  of  undertow,  while  each  whipstick,  true 
as  the  needle  to  the  pole,  still  preserved  that  level  and 
direction  in  which  its  proprietor  had  dismissed  his  for- 
lorn interrogatory.  They  took  sight  from  them, — the 
lash  being  wound  up  thereon,  to  prevent  your  attention 
from  wandering,  or  to  make  it  concentre  upon  its  object 
by  the  spiral  line.  They  began  at  first,  perhaps,  with 
the  modest,  but  rather  confident  inquiry,  "Want  a  cab, 
sir?"  but  as  their  despair  increased,  it  took  the  affirma- 
tive tone,  as  the  disheartened  and  irresolute  are  apt  to 
do:  "You  want  a  cab,  sir,"  or  even,  "You  want  a  nice 
cab,  sir,  to  take  you  to  Fourth  Street."  The  question 
•which  one  had  bravely  and  hopefully  begun  to  put,  an- 
other had  the  tact  to  take  up  and  conclude  with  fresh 
emphasis, — twirling  it  from  his  particular  whipstick  as 
if  it  had  emanated  from  his  lips — as  the  sentiment  did 
from  his  h^art.  Each  one  could  truly  say,  "Them's  my 
sentiments."  But  it  was  a  sad  sight. 

I  am  seven  and  a  half  miles  from  New  York,  and,  as 
it  wetild  take  half  a  day  at  least,  have  not  been  there  yet. 
I/Have  already  run  over  no  small  part  of  the  island,  to  the 
/highest  hill,  and  some  way  along  the  shore.  From  the 
hill  directly  behind  the  house  I  can  see  New  York, 
Brooklyn,  Long  Island,  the  Narrows,  through  which  ves- 
sels bound  to  and  from  all  parts  of  the  world  chiefly  pass, 
— Sandy  Hook  and  the  Highlands  of  Neversink  (part  of 
the  coast  of  New  Jersey) — and,  by  going  still  farther  up 


420  HENRY   DAVID    THOKEAU         [^Et.  33 

the  hill,  the  Kill  van  Kull,  and  Newark  Bay.  Erom  the 
pinnacle  of  one  Madame  Grimes'  house,  the  other  night 
at  sunset,  I  could  see  almost  round  the  island.  Far  in 
the  horizon  there  was  a  fleet  of  sloops  bound  up  the  Hud- 
son, which  seemed  to  be  going  over  the  edge  of  the  earth; 
and  in  view  of  these  trading  ships,  commerce  seems  quite 
imposing. 

But  it  is  rather  derogatory  that  your  dwelling-place 
should  be  only  a  neighborhood  to  a  great  city, — to  live  on 
an  inclined  plane.  I  do  not  like  their  cities  and  forts, 
with  their  morning  and  evening  guns,  and  sails  flapping 
in  one's  eye.  I  want  a  whole  continent  to  breathe  in,  and 
a  good  deal  of  solitude  and  silence,  such  as  all  Wall  Street 
cannot  buy, — nor  Broadway  with  its  wooden  pavement.  I 
must  live  along  the  beach,  on  the  southern  shore,  which 
looks  directly  out  to  sea, — and  see  what  that  great  parade 
of  water  means,  that  dashes  and  roars,  and  has  not  yet 
wet  me,  as  long  as  I  have  lived. 

I  must  not  know  anything  about  my  condition  and  re- 
lations here  till  what  is  not  permanent  is  worn  off.  I 
have  not  yet  subsided.  Give  me  time  enough,  and  I  may 
like  it.  All  my  inner  man  heretofore  has  been  a  Concord 
impression;  and  here  come  these  Sandy  Hook  and  Coney 
Island  breakers  to  meet  and  modify  the  former;  but  it 
will  be  long  before  I  can  make  nature  look  as  innocently 
grand  and  inspiring  as  in  Concord. 

Your  affectionate  son, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 
[JSt.  33] 

To  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 
[MARGARET  FULLER'S  DEATH] 

FIRE  ISLAND  BEACH, 
Thursday  morning,   July  25,   1850. 
Dear  Friend, — 

I  am  writing  this  at  the  house  of  Smith  Oakes,  within 
one  mile  of  the  wreck.*  He  is  the  one  who  rendered  most 
assistance.  William  H.  Channing  came  down  with  me, 
but  I  have  not  seen  Arthur  Fuller,  nor  Greeley,  nor  Mar- 
cus Spring.  Spring  and  Charles  Sumner  were  here  yes- 

*  Of  the  barque  Elisabeth. 


Mt.  33]         HENEY    DAVID    THOEEAU  421 

terday,  but  left  soon.  Mr.  Oakes  and  wife  tell  me  (all 
the  survivors  came,  or  were  brought,  directly  to  their 
house)  that  the  ship  struck  at  ten  minutes  after  four 
A.M.,  and  all  hands,  being  mostly  in  their  nightclothes, 
made  haste  to  the  forecastle,  the  water  coming  in  at  once. 
There  they  remained;  the  passengers  in  the  forecastle, 
the  crew  above  it,  doing  what  they  could.  Every  wave 
lifted  the  forecastle  roof  and  washed  over  those  within. 
The  first  man  got  ashore  at  nine;  many  from  nine  to 
noon.  At  flood  tide,  about  half  past  three  o'clock,  when 
the  ship  broke  up  entirely,  they  came  out  of  the  fore- 
castle, and  Margaret  sat  with  her  back  to  the  foremast, 
with  her  hands  on  her  knees,  her  husband  and  child  al- 
ready drowned.  A  great  wave  came  and  washed  her  aft. 
The  steward  ( ?)  had  just  before  taken  her  child  and 
started  for  shore.  Both  were  drowned. 

The  broken  desk,  in  a  bag,  containing  no  very  valuable 
papers;  a  large  black  leather  trunk,  with  an  upper  and 
under  compartment,  the  upper  holding  books  and  papers ; 
a  carpet-bag,  probably  Ossoli's,  and  one  of  his  shoes  (  ?) 
are  all  the  Ossoli  effects  known  to  have  been  found.  Four 
bodies  remain  to  be  found :  the  two  Ossolis,  Horace  Sum- 
iier,  and  a  sailor.  I  have  visited  the  child's  grave.  Its 
body  will  probably  be  taken  away  to-day.  The  wreck  is 
to  be  sold  at  auction,  excepting  the  hull,  to-day. 

The  mortar  would  not  go  off.  Mrs.  Hasty,  the  cap- 
tain's wife,  told  Mrs.  Oakes  that  she  and  Margaret  di- 
vided their  money,  and  tied  up  the  halves  in  handker- 
chiefs around  their  persons;  that  Margaret  took  sixty  or 
seventy  dollars.  Mrs.  Hasty,  who  can  tell  all  about  Mar- 
garet up  to  eleven  o'clock  on  Friday,  is  said  to  be  going 
to  Portland,  New  England,  to-day.  She  and  Mrs.  Fuller 
must,  and  probably  will,  come  together.  The  cook,  the 
last  to  leave,  and  the  steward  ( ?)  will  know  the  rest.  I 
shall  try  to  see  them.  In  the  mean  while  I  shall  do  what 
I  can  to  recover  property  and  obtain  particulars  here- 
abouts. William  H.  Channing  —  did  I  write  it?  —  has 
come  with  me.  Arthur  Fuller  has  this  moment  reached 
the  house.  He  reached  the  beach  last  night.  We  got 
here  yesterday  noon.  A  good  part  of  the  wreck  still  holds 
together  where  she  struck,  and  something  may  come 
ashore  with  her  fragments.  The  last  body  was  found  on 


422  JAMES      T.   FIELDS  [^Et.  46 

Tuesday,  three  miles  west.  Mrs.  Oakes  dried  the  papers 
which  were  in  the  trunk,  and  she  says  they  appeared  to 
be  of  various  kinds.  "Would  they  cover  that  table?"  (a 
small  round  one).  "They  would  if  spread  out.  Some 
were  tied  up.  There  were  twenty  or  thirty  books  in  the 
same  half  of  the  trunk.  Another  smaller  trunk,  empty, 
came  ashore,  but  there  was  no  mark  on  it."  She  speaks 
of  Paulina  as  if  she  might  have  been  a  sort  of  nurse  to 
the  child.  I  expect  to  go  to  Patchogue,  whence  the  pil- 
ferers must  have  chiefly  come,  and  advertise,  etc. 


|>Et.  46]  JAMES    T.   FIELDS 

1817-1881 

To  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW* 
"["AMONG  THE  SERENITIES"] 

CAMPTON  VILLAGE, 

June  19,  1864. 
My  dear  Longfellow, — 

We  are  here  among  the  serenities  and  the  fresh  eggs. 
Would  that  you  were  near,  to  feel  with  us  the  wonderful 
beauty  of  the  hills!  Do  come,  and  go  over  the  Willy 
acres,  and  drive  down  into  the  comforting  valleys  by  the 
lovely  river,  and  eat  wild  strawberries,  and  rattle  over 
the  hills  in  our  old  wagon.  In  one  week  of  this  life  I 
have  grown  as  rusty  as  an  old  nail.  I  have  lost  all  care; 
and  the  bundles  of  business  have  dropped  clean  off  my 
shoulders  and  gone  into  the  Pemigewasset.  All  the 
buzziness  here  13  done  by  the  bees;  and  the  only  active 
people  are  the  birds,  who  sing  all  day  long  about  our 
old  dwelling  by  the  roadside.  Such  a  careless,  good-for- 
nothing  peaceful  old  life  as  this  is  well  worth  trying.  A 
great  and  glorious  laziness  creeps  up  and  takes  posses- 
sion of  you  the  moment  you  arrive,  and  never  lets  go  its 
hold  as  long  as  you  stay.  You  loaf  about  in  dell  and 
hollow,  and  lie  down  on  the  hillside  and  let  the  slugs 
crawl  over  you  without  a  shake.  In  the  "broad  orchards 
resonant  with  bees"  you  go  to  sleep,  and  only  wake  up 

*  For    Longfellow's   answer,    see    p.    278. 


Mt.  34]  JOHN   KUSKIN  423 

when  the  horn  blows  for  dinner.     We  know  nothing  of 
the  weather  in  these  parts. 

"It  may  blow  North,  it  still  is  warm, 
Or  South,  it  still  is  clear; 
Or  East,  it  smells  like  a  clover  farm, 
Or  West,  no  -thunder  fear." 

Will  you  not  come?  .    .    . 

I  hope  "Palingenesis"  will  be  well  launched  when  the 
July  Atlantic  is  ready.  I  left  directions  to  have  it  prop- 
erly put  in  the  papers,  but  I  have  small  faith  in  editors 
when  I  am  out  of  the  way.  I  am  sure  nothing  finer  has 
been  printed  for  years. 

"Suns  rise  and  set  in  Saadi's  speech." 

My  wife  sends  kindest  regards  and  hopes  you  will  make 
your  way  to  our  roadside  perch  in  New  Hampshire. 

Yours  ever, 
J.  T.  F. 


.  34]  JOHN  KUSKIN 

1819-1900 

To  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD 
["WILD  STORM-CLOUDS";  THE  LAKE  COUNTRY  AND  THE  ALPS] 

KESWICK,  CUMBERLAND, 

Good  Friday,  1853. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford,  — 

The  pain  of  deep  self-reproach  was  mixed  with  the  de- 
light which  your  letter  gave  me  yesterday.  Two  months 
back  I  was  each  day  on  the  point  of  writing  to  you  to 
ask  for  your  sympathy  —  the  kindest  and  keenest  sympa- 
thy that,  I  think,  ever  filled  the  breadth  and  depth  of  an 
unselfish  heart.  But  my  purpose  was  variously  stayed, 
chiefly,  as  I  remember,  by  the  events  on  the  Continent, 
fraught  to  me  with  very  deep  disappointment,-  and  cast- 
ing me  into  a  depression  and  fever  of  spirit  which,  joined 
with  some  other  circumstances  nearer  home,  have,  until 
now  that  I  am  resting  with  my  kind  wife  among  these 
quiet  hills,  denied  me  the  heart  to  write  cheerfully  to 
those  very  dear  friends  to  whom  I  would  fain  never  write 
sadly.  And  now  your  letter  comes  with  all  its  sweetness 


424  JOHN   EUSKIN  [^Et.  34 

and  all  its  sting.  My  very  dear  lady,  believe  me,  I  am 
deeply  gratified  for  your  goodness,  in  a  state  of  wonder- 
ment at  its  continuance  to  me — cold  and  unthankful  as 
I  have  seemed — and  I  earnestly  hope  that  in  future  it 
may  not  so  frequently  have  to  take  the  form  of  forgive- 
ness, nor  my  sense  of  it  that  of  remorse. 

Nor  did  I  shrink  more  from  the  silent  blame  than  from 
the  painful  news  of  your  letter,  though  I  conjecture  that 
your  escape,  though  narrow,  was  complete — you  say  noth- 
ing of  any  hurt  received.  I  hate  ponies  and  everything 
four-legged,  except  an  ass-colt  and  an  arm-chair.  But 
you  are  better  and  the  spring  is  come,  and  I  hope,  for  I 
am  sure  you  will  allow  me,  to  bring  my  young  wife  to  be 
rejoiced  (under  the  shadow  of  her  new  and  grievous  lot) 
by  your  kind  comforting.  But  pray  keep  her  out  of  your 
garden,  or  she  will  certainly  lose  her  wits  with  pure  de- 
light, or  perhaps  insist  on  staying  with  you  and  letting 
me  find  my  way  through  the  world  by  myself:  a  task 
which  I  should  not  now  like  to  undertake.  I  should  be 
very,  very  .happy  just  now  but  for  these  wild  storm- 
clouds  bursting  on  my  dear  Italy  and  my  fair  France, 
my  occupation  gone,  and  all  my  earthly  treasures  (ex- 
cept the  one  I  have  just;  acquired  and  the  everlasting 
Alps)  perilled  amidst  the  "tumult  of  the  people,"  the 
"imagining  of  vain  things."  Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 
see  what  your  favorite  "Berangers"  and  "Gerald  Griffins" 
do !  But  these  are  thoughts  as  selfish  as  they  are  narrow. 
I  begin  to  feel  that  all  the  work  I  have  been  doing,  and 
all  the  loves  I  have  been  cherishing,  are  ineffective  and 
frivolous;  that  these  are  not  times  for  watching  clouds 
or  dreaming  over  quiet  waters,  that  more  serious  work 
is  to  be  done,  and  that  the  time  for  endurance  has  come 
rather  than  for  meditation,  and  for  hope  rather  than  for 
happiness.  Happy  those  whose  hope,  without  this  severe 
and  tearful  rending-away  of  all  the  props  and  stability 
of  earthly  enjoyments,  has  been  fixed  "where  the  wicked 
cease  from  troubling."  Mine  was  not;  it  was  based  on 
"those  pillars  of  the  earth"  which  are  "astonished  at  His 
reproof." 

I  have,  however,  passed  this  week  very  happily  here. 
We  have  a  good  clergyman,  Mr.  Myers,  and  I  am  recov- 
ering trust  and  tranquillity,  though  I  had  been  wiser  to 


JEt.  34]  JOHN   RUSKIN  425 

have  come  to  your  fair  English  pastures  and  flowering 
meadows,  rather  than  to  these  moorlands,  for  they  make 
me  feel  too  painfully  the  splendor,  not  to  be  in  any  wise 
resembled  or  replaced,  of  those  mighty  scenes  which  I 
can  reach  no  more — at  least  for  a  time.  I  am  thinking, 
however,  of  a  tour  among  our  English  abbeys — a  feature 
which  our  country  possesses  of  peculiar  loveliness.  As 
for  our  mountains  or  lakes,  it  is  in  vain  that  they  are 
defended  for  their  finish  or  their  prettiness.  The  people 
who  admire  them  after  Switzerland  do  not  understand 
Switzerland — even  Wordsworth  does  not.  Our  moun- 
tains are  mere  bogs  and  lumps  of  spongy  moorland,  and 
our  lakes  are  little  swampy  fish-ponds.  It  is  curious  I 
can  take  more  pleasure  in  the  chalk  downs  of  Sussex, 
which  pretend  to  nothing,  than  in  these  would-be  hills, 
and  I  believe  I  shall  have  more  pleasure  in  your  pretty 
lowland  scenery  and  richly  painted  gardens  than  in  all 
the  pseudo-sublime  of  the  barren  Highlands,  except  Killie- 
crankie.  I  went  and  knelt  beside  the  stone  that  marks 
the  spot  of  Claver's  death-wound  and  prayed  for  more 
such  spirits — we  need  them  now. 

My  wife  begs  me  to  return  her  sincere  thanks  for  your 
kind  message,  and  to  express  to  you  the  delight  with 
which  she  looks  forward  to  being  presented  to  you — re- 
membering what  I  told  her  among  some  of  my  first  plead- 
ings with  her,  that,  whatever  faults  she  might  discover 
in  her  husband,  he  could  at  least  promise  her  friends, 
whom  she  would  have  every  cause  to  love  and  to  honor. 
She  needs  them,  but  I  think  also  deserves  them. 

Ever,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  believe  me, 

Faithfully  and  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 


I>Et.  25]       JAMES    KUSSELL   LOWELL 

1819-1891 

To  C.  E.  BRIGGS 

["ELMWOOD  JUNIOR";  "DR.  PRIMROSE"] 

ELMWOOD,  Sept.  18,  1844. 
My  dear  Friend, — 

...  I  have  inherited  from  my  father  an  intellectual 
temperament  which  would  fain  keep  its  hands  soft.  I 
feel  the  sorrows  of  my  friends  and  their  joys  with  as 
much  intensity  as  human  nature  is  capable  of,  but  I  too 
often  remain  satisfied  with  the  feeling.  Partly  from 
constitutional  indolence  and  partly  from  timidity,  I  sit 
in  the  corner  with  my  heart  full  and  let  others  speak  and 
act.  But,  with  God's  help,  I  am  resolved  to  conquer  this. 
I  am  too  ready  to  leave  things  undone,  because  I  am 
never  satisfied  with  my  manner  of  doing  them.  .  .  . 

You  speak  of  our  marriage  as  one  of  "convenience," 
by  which  I  suppose  you  mean  that  our  means  are  such 
as  to  warrant  us  in  being  married  at  any  time.  This  is 
not  the  case.  My  Pioneer*  debts  will  not  be  paid  before 
January.  .  .  .  My  father  would  have  assisted  me  greatly, 
but  he  lost  a  great  part  of  his  own  property  a  few  years 
ago,  and  his  income  will  hardly  keep  pace  with  his  gen- 
erosity. You  will  be  glad  to  hear,  however,  that  he  has 
offered,  without  any  hint  on  my  part,  to  build  me  a  cot- 
tage on  a  piece  .of  his  land  here,  if  it  can  be  done  for  a 
thousand  dollars  or  thereabout.  I  think  that  I  can  put 
up  quite  a  comfortable  little  nest  for  that  sum,  with  a 
spare  chamber  for  you  and  your  wife  whenever  you  may 
be  able  to  pay  us  "provincials"  a  visit.  ...  I  have  al- 
ready christened  my  new  castle  (though  as  yet  an  atmos- 
pheric one)  "Elmwood  Junior,"  much  to  the  delight  of 
my  father,  who  is  one  of  the  men  you  would  like  to  know. 
He  is  Dr.  Primrose  in  the  comparative  degree,  the  very 
simplest  and  charmingest  of  sexagenarians,  and  not  with- 
out a  great  deal  of  the  truest  magnanimity.  Nothing  de- 
lights him  so  much  as  any  compliment  paid  to  me,  ex- 
cept the  idea  of  building  me  a  cottage.  If  you  could  see 
him  criticising  the  strut  or  crow  of  one  of  my  chanti- 

*  A  periodical  which  had  failed. 

426 


Mt.  26]         JAMES    EUSSELL   LOWELL  427 

cleers  with  a  child's  enthusiasm,  or  reading  a  review  of 
my  poems  which  he  does  not  think  laudatory  enough  (at 
the  same  time  professing  himself  a  disciple  of  Pope  and 
pretending  that  he  can't  understand  more  than  a  tithe 
of  what  I  write),  or  pointing  out  the  advantages  of  the 
site  he  has  selected  for  planting  the  Colony  from  Elm- 
wood  Senior,  or  talking  of  "the  efficacy  of  prayer,  or  prais- 
ing "the  old  Federal  Party  with  Washington  at  its  head," 
or  speaking  of  Jefferson  as  harshly  as  his  kind  heart  will 
let  him  speak  of  anybody — in  short,  if  you  had  a  more 
than  Asmodeus-faculty  and  could  take  the  roof  off  his 
heart,  you  would  fall  in  love  with  him.  He  has  had  far 
more  sorrow,  too,  than  most  men,  and  his  wounds  have 
been  in  his  tenderest  part  .  .  .  but  nothing  could  shake 
my  beloved  and  honored  father's  trust  in  God  and  his 
sincere  piety.  .  .  . 

Most  affectionately  your  friend, 

J.  E.  L. 
[J2t.  26] 

To  C.  F.  BRIGGS 

[HIS  DAUGHTER] 

Wednesday,  Feb.  4,  1846. 
My  dear  Friend, — 

You  must  count  .this  as  two  distinct  letters,  and  give 
me  credit  accordingly.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  very  much 
taken  up  with  the  baby  at  present.  It  is  true  our  en- 
larged means  enable  us  to  keep  a  maid,  but  I  do  not 
think  Blanche  safe  in  any  one's  arms  but  her  mother's 
and  mine,  and  Maria  cannot  bear  the  fatigue  of  "tend- 
ing" her  a  great  deal.  I  belong  to  a  class  of  philosophers 
(unhappily,  I  believe,  a  small  one)  who  do  not  believe 
that  children  are  born  into  the  world  to  subject  their 
mothers  to  a  diaper  despotism,  and  to  be  brought  down 
to  their  fathers  after  dinner,  as  an  additional  digestive 
to  the  nuts  and  raisins,  to  be  bundled  up  and  hurried 
away  at  the  least  symptom  of  disaffection  or  disturbed 
digestion.  Unlike  many  philanthropists,  I  endeavor  to 
put  my  principles  into  practice,  and  the  result  is  that  I 
find  pretty  steady  employment  and  (to  finish  the  quota- 
tions from  the  advertisements  of  serving-men's  Elysian 
Fields)  good  wages.  Blanche,  already,  with  a  perverted 


428  JAMES    KUSSELL    LOWELL         [JSt.  29 

taste,  prefers  her  father  to  any  one  else,  and  considers 
me  (as  the  antiquaries  do  whatever  they  can't  explain  in 
the  old  mythologies,  whether  it  be  male  or  female)  as 
"the  personification  of  the  maternal  principle."  She  is 
a  very  good  child,  however,  and  only  cries  enough  to  sat- 
isfy us,  as  the  old  Greek  said,  that  we  have  begotten  a 
mortal.  The  only  portentous  thing  she  ever  does  is  to 
sneeze,  and  as  it  would  be  quite  supererogatory  in  her  to 
do  this  in  order  to  procure  a  hearty  "God  bless  you!" 
from  all  present,  I  incline  to  interpret  it  by  Sir  Thomas 
Browne's  theory,  who,  in  his  exposure  of  vulgar  errors, 
after  pulling  to  pieces  the  notion  that  there  is  anything 
ominous  in  it,  proceeds  to  inform  us  that  it  is  an  effort 
of  nature  to  expel  any  humor  that  may  lurk  in  the  brain. 
If  this  be  so,  I  should  imagine,  from  Miss  Fuller's  at- 
tempts at  facetiousness,  which  now  and  then  give  a  mel- 
ancholy air  to  the  Tribune,  that  she  must  be  an  unparal- 
leled sternutator.  . 


29] 

To  C.  F.  BRIGGS 
[HIS  "OLD  GARRET"  ;  "A  FABLE  FOR  -CRITICS"] 

ELMWOOD,  May  12,  1848. 
My  dear  Friend, — 

.  .  .  Here  I  am  in  my  garret.  I  slept  here  when  I 
was  a  little  curly-headed  boy,  and  used  to  see  visions  be- 
tween me  and  the  ceiling,  and  dream  the  so  often  re- 
curring dream  of  having  the  earth  put  into  my  hand  like 
an  orange.  In  it  I  used  to  be  shut  up  without  a  lamp — 
my  mother  saying  that  none  of  her  children  should  be 
afraid  of  the  dark — to  hide  my  head  under  the  pillows, 
and  then  not  be  able  to  shut  out  the  shapeless  monsters 
that  thronged  around  me,  minted  in  my  brain.  It  is  a 
pleasant  room,  facing,  from  the  position  of  the  house,  al- 
most equally  towards  the  morning  and  the  afternoon.  In 
winter  I  can  see  the  sunset,  in  summer  I  can  see  it  only 
as  it  lights  up  the  tall  trunks  of  the  English  elms  in 
front  of  the  house,  making  them  sometimes,  when  the  sky 
behind  them  is  lead-colored,  seem  of  the  most  brilliant 
yellow.  When  the  sun,  towards  setting,  breaks  out  sud- 


29]         JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  429 

denly  after  a  thunder-shower  and  I  see  them  against  an 
almost  black  sky,  they  have  seemed  of  a  most  peculiar 
and  dazzling  green  tint,  like  the  rust  on  copper.  In  win- 
ter my  view  is  a  wide  one,  taking  in  a  part  of  Boston.  I 
can  see  one  long  curve  of  the  Charles,  and  the  wide  fields 
between  me  and  Cambridge,  and  the  flat  marshes  beyond 
the  river,  smooth  and  silent  with  glittering  snow.  As  the 
spring  advances  and  one  after  another  of  our  trees  puts 
forth,  the  landscape  is  cut  off  from  me  piece  by  piece, 
till,  by  the  end  of  May,  I  am  closeted  in  a  cool  and 
rustling  privacy  of  leaves.  Then  I  begin  to  bud  with  the 
season.  Towards  the  close  of  winter  I  become  thoroughly 
wearied  of  closed  windows  and  fires.  I  feel  dammed  up, 
and  yet  there  is  not  flow  enough  in  me  to  gather  any 
head  of  water.  When  I  can  sit  at  my  open  window  and 
my  friendly  leaves  hold  their  hands  before  my  eyes  to 
prevent  their  wandering  to  the  landscape,  I  can  sit  down 
and  write. 

I  have  begun  upon  the  "Fable"  again  fairly,  and  am 
making  some  headway.  I  think  with  what  I  sent  you 
(which  I  believe  was  about  500  lines)  it  will  make  some- 
thing over  a  thousand.  I  have  done,  since  I  sent  the 
first  half,  Willis,  Longfellow,  Bryant,  Miss  Fuller,  and 
Mrs.  Child.  In  Longfellow's  case  I  have  attempted  no 
characterization.  The  same  (in  a  degree)  may  be  said 
of  S.  M.  F.  With  her  I  have  been  perfectly  good-humored, 
but  I  have  a  fancy  that  what  I  say  will  stick  uncom- 
fortably. It  will  make  you  laugh.  So  will  L.  M.  C. 
After  S.  M.  F.  I  make  a  short  digression  on  bores  in 
general,  which  has  some  drollery  in  it.  Willis  I  think 
good.  Bryant  is  funny,  and  as  fair  as  I  could  make  it, 
immitigably  just.  Indeed  I  have  endeavored  to  be  so  in 
all.  I  am  glad  I  did  Bryant  before  I  got  your  letter. 
The  only  verses  I  shall  add  regarding  him  are  some 
complimentary  ones,  -which  I  left  for  a  happier  mood 
after  I  had  written  the  comic  part.  I  steal  from  him  in- 
deed! If  he  knew  me  he  would  not  say  so.  When  I 
steal  I  shall  go  to  a  specie-vault,  not  to  a  till.  Does  he 
think  that  he  invented  the  Past  and  has  a  prescription 
title  to  it?  Do  not  think  I  am  provoked.  I  am  simply 
amused.  If  he  had  riled  me,  I  might  have  knocked  him 
into  a  cocked  hat  in  my  satire.  But  that,  on  second 


430  JAMES    EUSSELL   LOWELL         [^Et,  30 

thought,  would  be  no  revenge,  for  it  might  make  him 
President,  a  cocked  hat  being  now  the  chief  qualifica- 
tion. It  would  be  more  severe  to  knock  him  into  the  mid- 
dle of  next  week,  as  that  is  in  the  future,  and  he  has  such 
a  partiality  towards  the  past.  However,  enough  of  him. 
My  next  volume  will  be  enough  revenge,  for  it  will  be 
better  than  my  last.  .  .  . 


.  30] 

To  CHARLES  E.  LOWELL* 
["THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  'OBSERVING'"] 

ELMWOOD,  June  11,  1849. 
My  dear  Charlie, — 

I  have  had  so  much  to  do  in  the  way  of  writing  during 
the  past  week  that  I  have  not  had  time  sooner  to  answer 
your  letter,  which  came  to  me  in  due  course  of  mail,  and 
for  which  I  am  much  obliged  to  you. 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  enjoying  yourself 
so  much,  and  also  that  the  poor  musquash  dug  faster 
than  you  did.  I  was  not  so  long  ago  a  boy  as  not  to  re- 
member what  sincere  satisfaction  there  is  in  a  good  duck- 
ing, and  how  the  spirit  of  maritime  adventure  is  min- 
istered to  by  a  raft  which  will  not  float.  I  congratulate 
you  on  both  experiences. 

And  now  let  me  assume  the  privilege  of  my  uncleship 
to  give  you  a  little  advice.  Let  me  counsel  you  to*  make 
use  of  all  your  visits  to  the  country  as  opportunities  for 
an  education  which  is  of  great  importance,  which  town- 
bred  boys  are  commonly  lacking  in,  and  which  can  never 
be  so  cheaply  acquired  as  in  boyhood.  Eemember  that  a 
man  is  valuable  in  our  day  for  what  he  knows,  and  that 
his  company  will  always  be  desired  by  others  in  exact 
proportion  to  the  amount  of  intelligence  and  instruction 
he  brings  with  him.  I  assure  you  that  one  of  the  earliest 
pieces  of  definite  knowledge  we  acquire  after  we  become 
men  is  this — that  our  company  will  be  desired  no  longer 
than  we  honestly  pay  our  proper  share  in  the  general 
reckoning  of  mutual  entertainment.  A  man  who  knows 
more  than  another  knows  incalculably  more,  be  sure  of 

*  At  the  age  of  fourteen.     Killed  at  the  Battle  of  Cedar  Creek,  1864. 


Mt.  30]         JAMES    KUSSELL   LOWELL  431 

that,  and  a  person  with  eyes  in  his  head  cannot  look  even 
into  a  pigsty  without  learning  something  that  will  be 
useful  to  him  at  one  time  or  another.  Not  that  we  should 
educate  ourselves  for  the  mere  selfish  sake  of  that  ad- 
vantage of  superiority  which  it  will  give  us.  But  knowl- 
edge is  power  in  this  noblest  sense,  that  it  enables  us  to 
benefit  others  and  to  pay  our  way  honorably  in  life  by 
being  of  use. 

Now,  when  you  are  at  school  in  Boston  you  are  fur- 
nishing your  brain  with  what  can  be  obtained  from  books. 
You  are  training  and  enriching  your  intellect.  While 
you  are  in  the  country  you  should  remember  that  you 
are  in  the  great  school  of  the  senses.  Train  your  eyes 
and  ears.  Learn  to  know  all  the  trees  by  their  bark  and 
leaves,"  by  their  general  shape  and  manner  of  growth. 
Sometimes  you  can  be  able  to  say  positively  what  a  tree 
is  not  by  simply  examining  the  lichens  on  the  bark,  for 
you  will  find  that  particular  varieties  of  lichen  love  par- 
ticular trees.  Learn  also  to  know  all  the  birds  by  sight, 
by  their  notes,  by  their  manner  of  flying;  all  the  animals 
by  their  general  appearance  and  gait  or  the  localities 
they  frequent. 

You  would  be  ashamed  not  to  know  the  name  and  use 
of  every  piece  of  furniture  in  the  house,  and  we  ought  to 
be  as  familiar  with  every  object  in  the  world — which  is 
only  a  larger  kind  of  house.  You  recollect  the  pretty 
story  of  Pizarro  and  the  Peruvian  Inca :  how  the  Inca 
asked  one  of  the  Spaniards  to  write  the  word  Dio  (God) 
upon  his  thumb-nail,  and  then,  showing  it  to  the  rest, 
found  only  Pizarro  unable  to  read  it !  Well,  you  will 
find  as  you  grow  older  that  this  same  name  of  God  is 
written  all  over  the  world  in  little  phenomena  that  occur 
under  our  eyes  every  moment,  and  I  confess  that  I  feel 
very  much  inclined  to  hang  my  head  with  Pizarro  when 
I  cannot  translate  these  hieroglyphics  into  my  own  ver- 
nacular. 

Now,  I  write  all  this  to  you,  my  dear  Charlie,  not  in 
the  least  because  it  is  considered  proper  for  uncles  to 
bore  their  nephews  with  musty  moralities  and  advice; 
but  I  should  be  quite  willing  that  you  should  think  me 
a  bore,  if  I  could  only  be  the  means  of  impressing  upon 
you  the  importance  of  observing,  and  the  great  fact  that 


432  JAMES    EUSSELL   LOWELL         [Mt.  30 

we  cannot  properly  observe  till  we  have  learned  how. 
Education,  practice,  and  especially  a  determination  not 
to  be  satisfied  with  remarking  that  side  of  an  object  which 
happens  to  catch  our  eye  first  when  we  first  see  it — these 
gradually  make  an  observer.  The  faculty,  once  acquired, 
becomes  at  length  another  sense  which  works  mechani- 
cally. 

I  think  I  have  sometimes  noticed  in  you  an  impatience 
of  mind  which  you  should  guard  against  carefully.  Pin 
this  maxim  up  in  your  memory — that  Nature  abhors  the 
credit  system,  and  that  we  never  get  anything  in  life 
till  we  have  paid  for  it.  Anything  good,  I  mean;  evil 
things  we  always  pay  for  afterwards,  and  always  when 
we  find  it  hardest  to  do  it.  By  paying  for  them,  of  course, 
I  mean  laboring  for  them.  Tell  me  how  much  good  solid 
work  a  young  man  has  in  him,  and  I  will  erect  a  horo- 
scope for  him  as  accurate  as  Guy  Mannering's  for  young 
Bertram.  Talents  are  absolutely  nothing  to  a  man  ex- 
cept he  have  the  faculty  of  work  along  with  them.  They, 
in  fact,  turn  upon  him  and  worry  him,  as  Action's  dogs 
did — these  are  the  sails  and  the  rudder  even  of  genius, 
without  which  it  is  only  a  wretched  hulk  upon  the  waters. 

It  is  not  fair  to  look  a  gift  horse  in  the  mouth,  unless, 
indeed,  it  be  a  wooden  horse,  like  that  which  carried  the 
Greeks  into  Troy;  but  my  lecture  on  patience  and  finish 
was  apropos  of  your  letter,  which  was  more  careless  in 
its  chirography  and  (here  and  there)  in  its  composition 
than  I  liked.  Always  make  a  thing  as  good  as  you  can. 
Otherwise  it  was  an  excellent  letter,  because  it  told  what 
you  had  seen  and  what  you  were  doing — certainly  better 
as  a  letter  than  this  of  mine,  which  is  rather  a  sermon. 
But  read  it,  my  dear  Charlie,  as  the  advice  of  one  who 
takes  a  sincere  interest  in  you.  I  hope  to  hear  from  you 
again,  and  my  answer  to  your  next  shall  be  more  enter- 
taining. 

I  remain  your  loving  uncle, 
J.  K.  LOWELL. 


Mt.  33]         JAMES    KUSSELL   LOWELL  433 

|>Et.  33] 

To  MRS.  FRANCIS  G.  SHAW 
[LETTERS  ;  THE  SOULS  OF  HOUSES] 

ELMWOOD,  Jan.  11,  1853. 
My  dear  Sarali, — 

You  know  that  I  promised  solemnly  to  write  yon  a 
letter  from  Switzerland,  and  therefore,  of  course,  I  didn't 
do  it.  These  epistolary  promises  to  pay  always  do  (or  at 
least  always  ought  to)  come  back  protested.  A  letter 
onght  always  to  be  the  genuine  and  natural  flower  of 
one's  disposition — proper  both  to  the  writer  and  the  sea- 
son— and  none  of  your  turnip  japonicas  cut  laboriously 
out  of  a  cheap  and  flabby  material.  Then,  when  you 
have  sealed  it  up,  it  comes  out  fresh  and  fragrant.  I  do 
not  like  shuttle-cock  correspondences.  What  is  the  use 
of  our  loving  people  if  they  can't  let  us  owe  them  a  let- 
ter? if  they  can't  be  sure  we  keep  on  loving  them  if  we 
don't  keep  sending  an  acknowledgment  under  our  hands 
and  seals  once  a  month  ?  As  if  there  were  a  statute  of 
limitations  for  affection!  The  moment  Love  begins  to 
think  of  Duty,  he  may  as  well  go  hang  himself  with  his 
own  bow-string.  All  this  means  that  if  I  should  never 
write  you  another  letter  (which  is  extremely  likely),  and 
we  should  never  meet  again  till  I  drop  in  upon  you  some 
day  in  another  planet,  I  shall  give  an  anxious  look  at 
myself  in  the  mirror  (while  I  am  waiting  for  you  to 
come  down),  and  shall  hear  the  flutter  of  your  descend- 
ing wings  with  the  same  admiring  expectation  as  I  should 
now  listen  for  your  foot  upon  the  stairs.  .  .  . 

Now,  the  reason  I  am  writing  to  you  is  this :  I  spent 
Sunday  with  Edmund  Quincey  at  Dedham,  and,  as  I 
came  back  over  the  rail  yesterday,  I  was  roused  from  a 
reverie  by  seeing  "West  Roxbury  Station"  written  up 
over  the  door  of  a  kind  of  Italian  villa  at  which  we 
stopped.  I  almost  twisted  my  head  off  looking  for  the 
house  on  the  hill.  There  it  stood  in  mourning  still,  just 
as  Frank  painted  it.  The  color  suited  my  mood  exactly. 
The  eyes  of  the  house  were  shut,  the  welcoming  look  it 
had  was  gone;  it  was  dead.  I  am  a  Platonist  about 
houses.  They  get  to  my  eye  a  shape  from  the  souls  that 
inhabit  them.  My  friends'  dwellings  seem  as  peculiar  to 


434  JAMES    EUSSELL   LOWELL         [^Et.  33 

them  as  their  bodies,  looks,  and  motions.  People  have 
no  right  to  sell  their  dead  houses;  they  should  burn  them 
as  they  used  to  burn  corpses.  Suppose  these  bodies  of 
ours  could  be  reinhabited,  and  that  our  heirs  could  turn 
an  honest  penny  (as  American  heirs  certainly  would)  by 
disposing  of  them  by  auction.  How  could  we  endure  to 
see  Miss  Amelia  Augusta  Smith's  little  soul  giggling 
out  of  those  sacred  caves  where  we  had  been  wont  to 
catch  glimpses  of  the  shrinking  Egeria  of  refined  and 
noble  womanhood  ?  With  what  horror  should  we  hear 
the  voice  that  had  thrilled  us  with  song,  startled  us  with 
ambushes  of  wit,  or  softened  us  with  a  sympathy  that 
made  us  feel  somehow  as  if  our  mother's  tears  were  mixed 
with  its  tones — I  say,  with  what  horror  should  we  hear 
it  using  all  its  pathos  and  all  its  melodious  changes  for 
the  cheapening  of  a  tarlatan  muslin  or  the  describing  the 
dress  that  Eliza  Ann  wore  at  her  wedding !  I  was  too 
far  off,  thank  God,  to  see  Mrs.  Smith  looking  out  of  your 
dead  house's  windows,  but  I  mused  of  these  things  as  the 
train  rolled  on,  and  caught  fragments  of  the  vapid  talk 
of  a  couple  on  the  seat  before  me.  I  have  buried  that 
house  now  and  flung  my  pious  handful  of  earth  over  it 
and  set  up  a  head-stone — and  I  shall  never  look  up  to 
the  hill-top  again,  let  me  pass  it  never  so  often.  But  I 
resolved  to  write  a  letter  to  its  departed  spirit. 

.  .  .  It  is  hard  writing  at  such  a  distance.  If  one 
be  in  good  spirits,  and  write  a  nice,  pleasant,  silly  letter, 
it  may  find  those  to  whom  it  goes  on  the  other  side  of 
the  world  in  the  midst  of  a  new  sorrow,  and  will  be  as 
welcome  as  a  half-tipsy  wedding  guest  at  a  funeral.  The 
thing  which  everybody  here  is  talking  about  is  the  Tip- 
pers. The  Rappers  are  considered  quite  slow  nowadays. 
Tables  speak  as  inspired,  consolatory  nothings  are  liter- 
ally delivered  ex  cathedra.  Bores  whom  we  thought 
buried  out  of  the  way  long  ago  revive  in  washstands  and 
bedsteads.  Departed  spirits  still  rule  us — but  no  longer 
metaphorically  from  their  urns — they  speak  to  us  through 
the  excited  centre-table.  I  have  heard  of  a  ..particular 
teapoy  that  was  vehement,  slowly  argumentative,  blandly 
sympathetic,  wildly  romantic,  and  all  with  its  legs  alone. 
Little  did  John  Chinaman  dream  what  he  was  making, 
as  little  as  John  Shakespeare  knew  that  he  had  begotten 


Mt.  35]         JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  435 

the  world's  wonder  William.  A  neighbor  of  ours  has  an 
exhorting  boot- jack,  and  I  expect  every  day  to  hear  of 
the  spirit  of  Diogenes  in  a  wash-tub.  Judge  Wells  (Aunt 
Wells,  as  he  is  affectionately  called  by  the  Bar)  is  such 
a  powerful  medium  that  he  has  to  drife  back  the  furni- 
ture from  following  him  when  he  goes  out,  as  one  might 
a  pack  of  too-affectionate  dogs.  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall 
meet  him  some  day  with  a  footstool  gambolling  at  his 
side  or  leaping  up  on  his  reluctant  legs.  .  .  . 


[Mt.  35] 

To  Miss  NORTON 

[BEVERLY  A  NEW  ENGLAND  SORRENTO] 
[BEVERLY],  SHIP  "UNDERBILL,"  ELDREDGE,  MISTRESS, 

Lat.  40°  20',  Long,  (bad  observation), 
Islands  of  Sirens  bearing  E.  S.  E.  21/2  miles. 

August  14,  1854. 

.  .  .  If  I  may  trust  a  rather  poor  memory — without 
a  book  to  make  a  crutch  of — I  ought  to  thank  you  for 
having  given  me  so  happy  an  example  of  the  force  of 
habit.  Some  four  thousand  years  ago  the  fountain  of 
Arethusa  went  down  near  Eleusis  ( ?)  and  came  up  at 
Syracuse  in  Sicily,  and  now,  translated  to  America  and 
tolerably  well  bound,  it  has  contrived  to  do  the  same 
thing  between  Shady  Hill  and  Newport.  I  am  quite 
content.  I  could  not  have  a  better  minister  resident,  nor 
one  less  intrusive,  only  reminding  you  of  me  when  you 
choose  to  give  an  audience,  and  then  always  saying  bet- 
ter things  than  I  could.  So  pray  do  not  give  her  her 
passports  yet.  I  shall  bring  the  "Conversations"  when  I 
am  happy  enough  to  come  myself. 

Now,  in  order  that  you  may  not  fancy  (as  most  per- 
sons who  go  to  Rhode  Island  do)  that  Newport  is  the 
only  place  in  the  world  where  there  is  any  virtue  in  salt 
water — I  will  say  a  word  or  two  of  Beverly.  Country 
and  sea-shore  are  combined  here  in  the  most  charming 
way.  Find  the  Yankee  word  for  Sorrento,  and  you  have 
Beverly — it  is  only  the  Bay  of  Naples  translated  into 
the  New  England  dialect.  The  ocean  and  the  forest  are 
not  estranged  here,  and  the  trees  trust  themselves  down 


436  JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL         [^Et.  35 

to  the  water's  edge  most  confidingly.  In  some  places  the 
ivy  plays  in  the  air  and  the  kelp  in  the  water,  like  chil- 
dren of  different  ranks  making  shy  advances  to  each 
other.  Close  behind  us  rises  a  rocky*  hill,  and  the  pine 
woods  begin — wonderful  woods,  called  Witch  Woods  by 
the  natives  because  it  is  so  easy  to  lose  your  way  in  them. 
All  through  them  strange  rocks  bulge  out — amphibious- 
looking  hybrids  between  sea-shore  and  inland — their  up- 
per edges  fringed  lightly  with  ferns  that  seem  to  entangle 
the  sunshine  and  hold  it  fast,  and  their  bases  rough  with 
queer  lichens  that  look  like  water-weeds.  I  think  there 
is  more  ocean  than  land  in  the  blood  of  these  rocks,  and 
they  always  seem  to  me  listening  and  waiting  for  the 
waves.  If  you  leap  down  from  one  of  them  you  sink 
ankle-deep  in  springy  pine-tassel  or  moss.  Somewhere  in 
these  woods  is  a  visionary  clearing  and  farm-house,  which 
every  one  gets  a  glimpse  of — but  no  man  hath  seen  twice. 
You  hear  the  crowing  of  cocks,  the  contented  low  of  cat- 
tle rubbing  their  soft  throats  over  the  polished  bars,  and 
sometimes  a  muffled  throb  of  flails;  presently,  through 
some  wood-gap,  you  see  the  chimney  and  the  blue  breath 
of  the  hearth  in  the  cool  air,  but  when  you  have  made 
your  way  through  the  next  thicket,  all  is  gone.  I  think 
it  is  the  farm  of  one  of  the  old  Salem  warlocks,  and  buy 
my  vegetables  warily,  fearful  of  some  ill  thing.  Here 
and  there,  climbing  some  higher  rock,  you  get  a  gleam 
of  sea  through  some  scoop  in  the  woods — a  green  cup 
filled  half  with  potable  gold. 

We  are  in  a  little  house  close  upon  the  road,  with  the 
sea  just  below,  as  seen  through  a  fringe  of  cedar,  wild 
cherry,  and  barberry.  Beyond  this  fringe  is  a  sand-beach 
where  we  bathe.  ...  As  I  look  out  of  my  window  I 
see  the  flicker  of  the  sea's  golden  scales  (which  the  moon 
will  by  and  by  touch  with  her  long  wand  and  turn  to 
silver)  stretching  eastward  forever.  We  are  at  the  foot 
of  a  bay,  across  the  mouth  of  which  lies  a  line  of  islands 
— some  bare  rock,  some  shrubby,  and  some  wooded.  These 
are  the  true  islands  of  the  Sirens.  One  has  been  disen- 
chanted by  a  great  hotel  to  which  a  steamboat  runs  in- 
numerably every  day  with  a  band — the  energetic  boong! 
boong! — boong!  boong!  boong! — of  the  bass  drum  being 
all  we  hear.  Our  sunset  is  all  in  the  southeast,  and  every 


Mi.  36]         JAMES   EUSSELL   LOWELL  437 

evening  the  clouds  and  islands  bloom  and  the  slow  sails 
are  yellowed  and  the  dories  become  golden  birds  swing- 
ing on  the  rosy  water. 

Well,  well,  after  all,  I  am  only  saying  that  Nature  is 
here  as  well  as  at  Newport,  and  that  she  has  not  lost  her 
knack  at  miracles.  But  at  Newport  you  have  no  woods, 
and  ours  are  so  grand  and  deep  and  unconverted!  They 
have  those  long  pauses  of  conscious  silence  that  are  so 
fine,  as  if  the  spirit  that  inhabits  them  were  hiding  from 
you  and  holding  its  breath — and  then  all  the  leaves  stir 
again,  and  the  pines  cheat  the  rocks  with  their  mock 
surf,  and  tjhat  invisible  bird  that  haunts  such  solitudes 
calls  once  and  is  answered,  and  then  silence  again.  I 
would  not  have  told  you  how  much  better  this  is  than 
your  Rhode  Island  glories — only  that  you  Newport  folks 
always  seem  a  little  (I  must  go  to  my  Yankee)  stuck  up, 
as  if  Newport  were  all  the  world,  and  you  the  saints  that 
had  inherited  it.  But  I  hope  to  see  you  and  Newport 
soon,  and  I  will  be  lenient.  You  shall  find  in  me  the 
Beverly  grandeur  of  soul  which  can  acknowledge  alien 
merit. 


[JEt.  36] 

To  C.  E.  NORTON 
[WALT  WHITMAN] 

DRESDEN,  Monday,  Oct.  12,  1855. 

.  .  .  Whitman — I  remember  him  of  old;  he  used  to 
write  for  the  Democratic  Review  under  O'Sullivan.  He 
used  to  do  stories  then,  a  la  Hawthorne.  No,  no,  the 
kind  of  thing  you  describe  won't  do.  When  a  man  aims 
at  originality  he  acknowledges  himself  consciously  un- 
original, a  want  of  self-respect  which  does  not  often  go 
along  with  the  capacity  for  great  things.  The  great  fel- 
lows have  always  let  the  stream  of  their  activity  flow 
quietly — if  one  splashes  in  it  he  may  make  a  sparkle, 
but  he  muddies  it  too,  and  the  good  folks  down  below  (I 
mean  posterity)  will  have  none  of  it.  We  have  a  feeling 
of  quiet  and  easy-going  power  in  the  really  great  that 
makes  us  willing  to  commit  ourselves  with  them.  Some- 
times I  have  thought  that  Michel  Agnolo  cocked  his  hat 


438  JAMES    EUSSELL   LOWELL         [^Et.  38 

a  little  wee  bit  too  much,  but  after  seeing  his  Prophets 
and  Sybils  (i  y)  you'll  say  I'm  a  wretch.  It  is  not  the 
volcanoes,  after  all,  that  give  a  lasting  and  serene  delight, 
but  those  quiet  old  giants  without  a  drop  of  fireblood  in 
their  veins  that  lie  there  basking  their  unwarmable  old 
sides  in  the  sun  no  more  everlasting  than  they — patent 
unshiftable  ballast  that  keep  earth  and  human  thought 
trimmed  and  true  on  an  even  keel.  Ah,  the  cold-blooded 
old  monsters,  how  little  they  care  for  you  and  me! 
Homer,  Plato,  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Cervantes,  Goethe — • 
are  they  not  everlasting  boundary-stones  that  mark  the 
limits  of  a  noble  reserve  and  self-restraint,  and  seem  to 
say,  "Outside  of  us  is  Chaos — go  there  if  y6*u  like — we 
knew  better — it  is  a  dreary  realm  where  moan  the  ghosts 
of  dead-born  children,  and  where  the  ghost  of  mad  old 
Lear  is  king?" 

My  dear  Norton,  upon  my  word  I  am  not  giving  you  an 
extract  from  my  next  lecture.   .    .    . 


[JEt.  38] 

To  C.  E.  NORTON 
[MORNING  WALKS] 

CAMBRIDGE,  Dec.  31,  1857. 
My  dear  Charles, — 

At  last!  Like  a  true  lazzarone  as  I  am  I  have  been 
waiting  for  sunshine  before  I  wrote — I  mean,  for  one  of 
those  moods  that  would  make  a  letter  worth  sending;  and 
such  a  mood  is  not  dependent  on  mere  cheerfulness,  but 
almost  altogether  on  having  nothing  to  do,  so  that  one 
can  have  time  to  hatch  one's  thoughts  fairly  out  as  one 
goes  along.  Pen  and  paper  are  never  inspiring  to  me  as 
conversation  sometimes  is, — and  I  was  born  to  sit  on  a 
fence  in  the  sun,  and  (if  I  had  my  own  way)  in  those 
latter  days  of  May,  when  the  uneasy  blue-bird  shifts  his 
freight  of  song  from  post  to  post,  and  the  new  green  of 
spring  is  just  passing  from  the  miraculous  into  the  fa- 
miliar. .  .  . 

For  a  lazy  man  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do.    A  magazine* 

*  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  which  he  was  editing. 


Mi.  39]        JAMES   KUSSELL   LOWELL         ,       439 

allows  no  vacations.  What  with  manuscripts  and  proofs 
and  what  not,  it  either  takes  up  or  breaks  up  all  one's 
time.  .  .  . 

But  even  the  magazine  has  its  compensations.  First, 
it  has  almost  got  me  out  of  debt,  and  next,  it  compels  me 
into  morning  walks  to  the  printing-office.  There  is  a 
little  foot-path  which  leads  along  the  river-bank,  and  it 
is  lovely;  whether  in  clear,  cold  mornings,  when  the  fine 
filaments  of  the  bare  trees  on  the  horizon  seem  floating 
up  like  sea-masses  in  the  ether  sea,  or  when  (as  yester- 
day) a  gray  mist  fills  our  Cambridge  cup  and  gives  a 
doubtful  loom  to  its  snowy  brim  of  hills,  while  the  silent 
gulls  wheel  over  the  rustling  cakes  of  ice  which  the 
Charles  is  whirling  seaward.  So  I  get  my  bits  of  country 
and  can  feel  like  a  rustic  still,  but  I  miss  the  winter- 
birds  I  used  to  see  at  home.  I  continue  to  think  the 
marshes  lovely,  and  this  winter  they  are  covered  with 
plump  ricks,  whereof  some  half-dozen  standing  on  my 
own  amphibious  territory  give  me  a  feeling  of  ownership 
and  dignity,  albeit  the  hay  does  not  belong  to  me.  This 
only  strengthens  a  faith  I  have  long  held,  that  we  are 
only  metaphysically  and  imaginatively  rich  as  far  as 
mere  possession  goes,  and  only  actually  so  in  what  we 
give  away.  .  .  . 


To  Miss  NORTON 
[GOUT] 

CAMBRIDGE,  Aug.  30,  1858. 

.  .  .  Since  I  got  your  Berkshire  letter  I  have  come  into 
an  inheritance — I  have  had  my  life  insured  for  forty 
years — I  have  been  chained  by  one  leg — I  have  suffered 
the  torture  of  the  Boot— I  have  said  disrespectful  things 
of  my  great-grandfather — I  have  received  no  sympathy,, 
but  have  been  laughed  at — I  have  laughed  myself,  some- 
times on  the  wrong  side  of  my  mouth — in  short,  I  have 
had  an  attack  of  the — no,  I  won't  tell  you  what  yet.  I 
will  prepare  your  mind.  I  will  dignify  it  by  poetic 
precedent.  I  may  compare  myself  with  Milton  (in  this 
respect).  I  may  claim  brotherhood  with  Gray  and  Wai- 


440  JAMES   BUSSELL   LOWELL         [>Et.  39 

pole.  In  short  I  have  had  the  gout.  I  cannot  escape 
the  conclusion  that  I  am  a  middle-aged  man.  I  even 
fear  that  I  shall  have  to  wear  a  special  shoe  on  my  left 
foot.  My  verses  will  no  longer  be  admired  by  young 
ladies  of  sixteen.  On  the  other  hand,  I  have  been  think- 
ing over  the  advantages.  I  find  by  the  books  that  (if 
nothing  happens)  I  shall  live  long.  That  it  "relieves  the 
system" — which  seems  to  be  true,  for  I  have  not  been 
so  well  for  a  year.  That  in  the  course  of  time  I  shall 
be  able  to  write  my  name  and  keep  my  milk-score  with 
my  knuckles.  That  I  shall  always  have  an  excuse  for 
being  as  testy  as  I  please.  On  the  whole,  I  think  the 
odds  are  in  favor  of  podagra.  The  worst  danger  is  that 
the  eyes  are  liable  to  be  painfully  affected  with  iritis — a 
comprehensive  Greek  term  implying  that  the  eye-wrong-is. 
But  this  is  more  than  set  off  by  the  certainty  that  I  shall 
never  be  subject  to  that  in-great-toe  otio  to  which  Nereus, 
according  to  Horace,  doomed  the  winds.  (Since  making 
these  two  puns  I  have  carefully  fumigated  the  paper,  so 
that  you  need  not  fear  infection.)  As  soon  as  my  father 
heard  of  my  trouble  he  came  to  see  me,  bringing  a  cyclo- 
pedia of  medicine  (from  which  he  has  selected  a  variety 
of  choice  complaints  for  himself),  that  my  reading  might 
be  of  an  enlivening  character.  I  do  not  find  that  there 
is  any  specific  for  the  gout,  but,  on  the  similia-similibus 
principle,  I  eat  "tomarters"  daily.  The  disease  derives 
its  name  (like  mons  a  non  movendo}  from  the  patient's 
inability  to  go  out.  The  ordinary  derivation  from  gutta 
is  absurd — for  not  only  is  the  German  form  Gicht  de- 
duced from  geken,  but  the  persons  incident  to  the  mal- 
ady are  precisely  those  who  themselves  (or  their  ancestors 
for  them)  have  kept  just  this  side  of  the  gutter.  I 
never  heard  that  my  great-grandfather  died  insolvent,  but 
I  am  obliged  to  foot  some  of  his  bills  for  port.  I  can't 
help  thinking  that  I  shall  be  worse  if  I  indulge  any  longer 
in  this  kind  of  thing — so  I  shall  stop.  .  .  . 


JEt.  41]         JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  441 

.  39] 


To  O.  W.  HOLMES 
[THE  "PROFESSOR";  "SAMSON'S  WEAPON"] 

CAMBRIDGE,  Dec.  19,  1858. 
My  dear  Wendell,  — 

Thank  you  ever  so  much  for  the  "Autocrat,"  who  comes 
at  last  drest  like  a  gentleman.  The  color  of  the  paper 
is  just  that  which  knowers  love  to  see  in  old  lace. 

"Run  out"  indeed!  —  who  has  been  suggesting  the  dan- 
ger of  that  to  you?  I  hope  you  will  continue  to  run  out 
in  the  style  of  the  first  "Professor."  The  comparison  of 
the  bung  and  the  straw  is  excellent  and  touched  a  very 
tender  spot  in  me,  who  was  born  between  two  cider-mills, 
and  drew  in  much  childish  belly-ache  from  both,  turned 
now  by  memory  into  something  like  the  result  that  might 
follow  nectar. 

You  have  been  holding-in  all  this  while  —  possumus 
omnes,  we  all  play  the  'possum  —  and  are  now  getting  your 
second  wind.  I  like  the  new  Professor  better  than  the 
old  Autocrat.  You  have  filled  no  ten  pages  so  wholly 
to  my  liking  as  in  the  January  number.  I  have  just 
read  it  and  am  delighted  with  it.  The  "Old  Boston"  is 
an  inspiration.  You  have  never  been  so  wise  and  witty 
as  in  this  last  number.  I  hold  up  my  left  foot  in  token 
of  my  unanimity. 

The  religious  press  (a  true  sour-cider  press  with  belly- 
ache privileges  attached)  will  be  at  you,  but  after  smash- 
ing one  of  them  you  will  be  able  to  furnish  yourself 
with  a  Samson's  weapon  for  the  rest  of  the  Philisterei. 
Good-by. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


To  W.  D.  HOWELLS 
["HOLD  YOURSELF  DEAR"] 

CAMBRIDGE,  Monday,  Aug.,  1860. 
My  dear  young  Friend,  — 

Here  is  a  note  to  Mr.  Hawthorne,  which  you  can  use 
if  you  have  occasion. 

Don't  print  too  much  and  too  soon;  don't  get  married 


442  JAMES    KUSSELL   LOWELL         [.Et.  42 

in  a  hurry;  read  what  will  make  you  think,  not  dream; 
hold  yourself  dear,  and  more  power  to  your  elbow!  God 
bless  you!  Cordially  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

A  man  may  have  ever  so  much  in  him,  but  ever  so  much 
depends  on  how  he  gets  it  out. 

Finis,  quoad  Biglow. 

To  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 
[WILLIAM  DEAN   HOWELLS] 

CAMBRIDGE,  Aug.  5,  1860. 
My  dear  Hawthorne,  — 

I  have  no  masonic  claim  upon  you  except  community. 
of  tobacco,  and  the  young  man  who  brings  this  does  not 
smoke. 

But  he  wants  to  look  at  you,  which  will  do  you  no 
harm,  and  him  a  great  deal  of  good. 

His  name  is  Howells,  and  he  is  a  fine  young  fellow,  and 
has  written  several  poems  in  the  Atlantic,  which  of  course 
you  have  never  read,  because  you  don't  do  such  things 
yourself,  and  are  old  enough  to  know  better. 

When  I  think  how  much  you  might  have  profited  by 
the  perusal  of  certain  verses  of  somebody  who  shall  be 
nameless  —  but,  no  matter!  If  my  judgment  is  good  for 
anything,  this  youth  has  more  in  him  than  any  of  our 
younger  fellows  in  the  way  of  rhyme. 

Of  course  he  can't  hope  to  rival  the  Consule  Planco 
men.  Therefore  let  him  look  at  you,  and  charge  it 

To  yours  always, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


To  Miss  NORTON 
[A  MISDATED  LETTER] 
ELMWOOD,  the  day  before  you  wrote 

your  last  letter;  viz.,  Sept.  28,  1861. 
My  dear  Sibyl,  — 

Will  you  kindly  tell  me  what  has  happened  next  week, 
so  that  I  may  be  saved  from  this  daily  debauch  of  news- 
papers? How  many  "heroic  Mulligans"  who  "meurent  et 
ne  se  rendent  pas"  to  the  reporters,  with  the  privilege  of 


Mt.  42]         JAMES   KUSSELL   LOWELL  443 

living  and  surrendering  to  the  enemy?  How  many  "ter- 
rific conflicts"  near  Cheat  Mountain  (ominous  name), 
with  one  wounded  on  our  side,  and  enemy's  loss  supposed 
to  be  heavy?  How  many  times  we  are  to  save  Kentucky 
and  lose  our  self  respect?  How  many  times  the  Potomac 
is  to  be  "hermetically  sealed"?  How  often  Mr.  Seward 
is  to  put  newspaper  correspondents  on  the  level  of  Secre- 
taries of  State?  etc.,  etc.  I  ask  all  these  questions  be- 
cause your  so-welcome  letter,  which  I  received  on  Wednes- 
day the  25th,  was  dated  to-morrow  the  29th.  There  is 
something  very  impressive  to  the  imagination  in  a  letter 
from  the  future,  and  to  be  even  a  day  in  advance  of  the 
age  is  a  good  deal — how  much  more  five  or  six !  How  does 
it  seem  to  come  back?  Is  not  everything  weary  and  stale? 
Or  do  you  live  all  the  time  in  a  balloon,  thus  seeing  over 
the  lines  of  Time,  the  old  enemy  of  us  all?  Pray  tell  me 
how  much  foolisher  I  shall  be  this  day  twelve-month. 
Well,  at  any  rate,  you  can't  see  far  enough  to  find  the 
day  when  your  friendship  shall  not  be  one  of  my  dearest 
possessions.  .  .  . 

Has  it  begun  to  be  cold  with  you  ?  I  had  a  little  Italian 
bluster  of  brushwood  fire  yesterday  morning,  but  the 
times  are  too  hard  with  me  to  allow  of  such  an  extrava- 
gance except  on  the  brink  of  gelation.  The  horror  of  my 
tax-bill  has  so  infected  my  imagination  that  I  see  myself 
and  all  my  friends  begging  entrance  to  the  P.  H.  (From 
delicacy  I  use  initials.)  I  fancy  all  of  you  gathering  fuel 
on  the  Newport  beaches.  I  hope  you  will  have  lots  of 
wrecks — Southern  privateers,  of  course.  Don't  ever  over- 
load yourself.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  looking  like 
the  poor  women  I  met  in  the  Pineta  at  Ravenna  just 
at  dusk,  having  the  air  of  moving  druidical  alters  or 
sudden  toadstools. 

Our  trees  are  beginning  to  turn — the  maples  are  all 
ablaze,  and  even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires.  The 
Virginia  creeper  that  I  planted  against  the  old  horse- 
chestnut  stump  trickles  down  in  blood  as  if  its  support 
were  one  of  Dante's  living  wood.  The  haze  has  begun, 
and  the  lovely  mornings  when  one  blesses  the  sun.  I 
confess  our  summer  weather  too  often  puts  one  in  mind 
of  Smithfield  and  the  Book  of  Martyrs. 

I  have  had  an  adventure.     I  have  dined  with  a  prince. 


444  JAMES    KITS  SELL   LOWELL         [>Et.  42 

After  changing  my  mind  twenty  times,  I  at  last  sat 
down  desperately  and  "had  the  honor  to  accept."  And 
I  was  glad  of  it — for  H.  I.  H.'s  resemblance  to  his  uncle 
is  something  wonderful.  I  had  always  supposed  the  por- 
traits of  the  elder  Nap  imperialized,  but  Jerome  N.  looks 
as  if  he  had  sat  for  that  picture  where  the  emperor  lies 
reading  on  a  sofa — you  remember  it.  A  trifle  weaker 
about  the  mouth,  suggesting  loss  of  teeth;  but  it  is  not 
so,  for  his  teeth  are  exquisite.  He  looks  as  you  would 
fancy  his  uncle  if  he  were  Empereur  de  Ste.  Helene, 
roi  d'Yvetot.  I  sat  next  to  colonel  Ragon,  who  led  the 
forlorn  hope  at  the  taking  of  the  Malakoff  and  was  at 
the  siege  of  Rome.  He  was  a  very  pleasant  fellow.  (1 
don't  feel  quite  sure  of  my  English  yet — J'ai  tant  parle 
Frangais  que  je  trouve  beaucoup  de  difficulte  a  m'y 
deshabituer.)  Pendant  —  I  mean  during  —  the  dinner 
Ooendel  Homes  recitait  des  vers  vraiment  jolis.  II  arri- 
vait  deja  au  bout,  quand  M.  Ragon,  se  tournant  vers  moi 
d'un  air  mele  d'intelligence  et  d'interrogation,  et  a  la 
meme  fois  d'un  Colomb  qui  fait  la  decouverte  d'un  monde 
tout  nouveau,  s'ecria,  "C'est  en  vers,  Monsieur,  n'est  ce 
pas?"  St'anegdot  charmang  j'ai  rahcontay  ah  Ooendell 
daypwee,  avec  days  eclah  de  reer.  (See  Bolmar.)  Mr. 
Everett  made  a  speech  ou  il  y  avait  un  soupgon  de  lon- 
gueur. The  prince  replied  most  gracefully,  as  one 
"Who  saying  nothing  yet  saith  all." 

He  speaks  French  exquisitely — foi  de  professeur.  Ho 
parlato  anche  Italiano  col  Colonello,  chi  e  stato  sei  anni 
in  Italia,  and  I  believe  I  should  have  tried  Hebrew  with 
the  secretary  of  legation,  who  looked  like  a  Jew,  if  I  had 
had  the  chance.  After  dinner  the  prince  was  brought  up 
and  presented  to  me!  Please  remember  that  when  we 
meet.  The  political  part  of  our  conversation  of  course 
I  am  not  at  liberty  to  repeat  (!!),  but  he  asked  me 
whether  I  myself  occupied  of  any  work  literary  at  pres- 
ent? to  which  I  answered,  no.  Then  he  spoke  of  the 
factories  at  Lowell  and  Lawrence,  and  said  how  much  the 
intelligence  of  the  operatives  had  interested  him,  etc., 
etc.  He  said  that  Boston  seemed  to  have  much  more 
movement  intellectual  than  the  rest  of  the  country  (to 
which  I  replied.  *>.ous  le  croyons,  au  moins) ;  astonished 


^Et.  46]         JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  445 

himself  at  the  freedom  of  opinion  here,  etc.,  at  the  ab- 
sence of  Puritanism  and  the  like.  I  thought  him  very 
intelligent  and  thanked  him  for  his  bo  deescoor  o  saynah 
Frongsay  shure  lays  ahfair  deetahlee.  (See  Bolmar  again, 
which  I  took  in  my  pocket.)  .  .  , 

Ever  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 
[^Et.  46] 

To  Miss  NORTON 
[HOT  WEATHER;  THE  "COMMEMORATION  ODE"] 

ELMWOOD,  July  25,  1865. 
My  dear  Jane, — 

However  statures  and  wits  may  degenerate,  and  we 
become,  as  Donne  says,  uour  fathers'  shadows  cast  at 
noon,"  July  keeps  his  old  force  and  is  pleasing  himself 
to-day  with  a  noble  display  of  it.  It  is  so  hot  that  the 
very  locusts  are  dumb  and  cannot  endure  to  carry  on  their 
own  trade  of  spinning  out  "their  long-drawn,  red-hot 
wires  of  shrilly  song,"  as  they  are  called  in  a  lost  poem 
of  Pindar's,  from  which  I  translate  by  direct  inspiration 
of  a  scholiast  turned  table-tipper.  Each  under  his  cool 
leaf  is  taking  his  siesta.  There  is  an  unpleasing  moisture 
even  in  the  slender  palms  of  the  flies  that  fondle  the 
restiff  tip  of  my  nose.  The  thin  gray  lives  of  mosquitoes 
are  burnt  up  and  evaporate.  My  anxious  shirt-collar  still 
stiffly  holds  its  undiminished  state,  but  with  a  damp  fore- 
boding of  its  doom.  In  short,  dear  Jane,  it  is  just  such 
a  day  as  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather,  abusing  his  oppor- 
tunities, invariably  appoints  for  public  festivities — just 
such  a  day  as  were  the  Wednesday,  Thursday,  and  Friday 
of  last  week.  Nevertheless,  I  am  here  among  my  books 
and  I  am  in  a  literal  sense  alive.  I  eat  and  smoke  and 
sleep  and  go  through  all  the  nobler  functions  of  a  man 
mechanically  still,  and  wonder  at  myself  as  at  something 
outside  of  and  alien  to  Me.  For  have  I  not  worked  my- 
self lean  on  an  "Ode  for  Commemoration"?  Was  I  not 
so  rapt  with  the  fervor  of  conception  as  I  have  not  been 
these  ten  years,  losing  my  sleep,  my  appetite,  and  my 
flesh,  those  attributes  to  which  I  before  alluded  as  nobly 
uniting  us  in  a  common  nature  with  our  kind  ?  Did  I 
not  for  two  days  exasperate  everybody  that  came  near 


446  JAMES    KUSSELL   LOWELL         |>Et.  46 

me  by  reciting  passages  in  order  to  try  them  on?  Did  I 
not  even  fall  backward  and  downward  to  the  old  folly 
of  hopeful  youth,  and  think  I  had  written  something 
really  good  at  last?  And  am  I  not  now  enduring  those 
retributive  dumps  which  ever  follow  such  sinful  exulta- 
tions, the  Erynnyes  of  Vanity?  Did  not  I  make  John 
Holmes  and  William  Story  shed  tears  by  my  recitation 
of  it  (my  ode)  in  the  morning,  both  of  'em  fervently 
declaring  it  was  "noble"?  Did  not  evan  the  silent  Rowse 
declare  'twas  in  a  higher  mood  than  much  or  most  of 
later  verse  ?  Did  not  I  think,  in  my  nervous  exhilaration, 
that  'twould  be  the  feature  (as  reporters  call  it)  of  the 
day?  And,  after  all,  have  I  npt  a  line  in  the  Daily 
Advertiser  calling  it  a  "graceful  poem"  (or  "some  grace- 
ful verses,"  I  forget  which),  which  "was  received  with 
applause"  ?  Why,  Jane,  my  legs  are  those  of  grasshoppers, 
and  my  head  is  an  autumn  threshing-floor,  still  beating 
with  the  alternate  flails  of  strophe  and  antistrophe,  and 
an  infinite  virtue  is  gone  out  of  me  somehow — but  it 
seems  not  into  my  verse  as  I  dreamed.  Well,  well,  Charles 
will  like  it — but  then  he  always  does,  so  what's  the  use? 
I  am  Icarus  now  with  the  cold  salt  sea  over  him  instead 
of  the  warm  exulting  blue  of  ether.  I  am  gone  under, 
and  I  will  never  be  a  fool  again.  You  read  between  the 
lines,  don't  you,  my  dear  old  friend,  if  I  may  dare  to 
call  a  woman  so  ?  You  know  my  foibles — women*  always 
know  our  foibles,  confound  them! — though  they  always 
wink  at  the  right  moment  and  seem  not  to  see — bless 
them!  Like  a  boy,  I  mistook  my  excitement. for  inspira- 
tion, and  here  I  am  in.  the  mud.  You  see  also  I  am.  a 
little  disappointed  and  a  little  few  (un  petit  pen)  vexed. 
I  did  not  make  the  hit  I  expected,  and  am  ashamed  at 
having  been  again  tempted  into  thinking  I  could  write 
poetry,  a  delusion  from  which  I  have  been  tolerably  free 
these  dozen  years.  .  .  . 

26th. 

The  Story s  have  got  home  and  look  as  young  as  ever.  I 
first  saw  William  on  Commencement  day,  and  glad  enough 
I  was.  A  friendship  counting  nearly  forty  years  is  the 
finest  kind  of  shade-tree  I  know  of.  One  is  safe  from 
thunder  beneath  it,  as  under  laurel — nay,  more  safe,  for 
the  critical  bolts  do  not  respect  the  sacred  tree  any  more 


Mi.  48]         JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  447 

than  if  it  were  so  much  theatrical  green  baize.  To  be 
sure,  itself  is  of  the  harmless  theatrical  kind  often 
enough.  Well,  he  and  two  more  came  up  hither  after 
dinner,  and  we  talked  and  laughed  and  smoked  and 
drank  Domdechanei  till  there  wasn't  a  bald  head  nor  a 
gray  hair  among  us.  Per  Bacco  and  tobacco,  how  wisely 
silly  we  were !  I  forgot  for  a  few  blessed  hours  that  I  was 
a  professor,  and  felt  as  if  I  were  something  real.  But 
Phi  Beta  came  next  day,  and  wasn't  I  tired!  Presiding 
from  9  A.  M.  till  6*4  P-  M.  is  no  joke,  and  then  up  next 
morning  at  l/2  past  4  to  copy  out  and  finish  my  ode.  I 
have  not  got  cool  yet  (I  mean  as  to  nerves),  and  lie 
awake  at  night  thinking  how  much  better  my  verses  might 
have  been,  only  I  can't  make  'em  so.  Well,  I  am  printing 
fifty  copies  in  4to,  and  Charles  will  like  it,  as  I  said 
before,  and  I  sha'n't,  because  I  thought  too  well  of  it 
at  first.  .  .  . 

Yours  always, 

J.  R.  L. 
[Mi.  48] 

To  C.  E.  NORTON 

["SUCH    STUFF    AS    STARS    ARE    MADE    OF"] 

ELMWOOD,  July  18,  1867. 

.  .  .  Emerson's  oration  was  more  disjointed  than  usual, 
even  with  him.  It  began  nowhere  and  ended  everywhere,, 
and  yet,  as  always  with  that  divine  man,  it  left  you 
feeling  that  something  beautiful  had  passed  that  way — 
something  more  beautiful  than  anything  else,  like  the 
rising  and  setting  of  stars.  Every  possible  criticism 
might  have  been  made  on  it  but  one — that  it  was  not 
noble.  There  was  a  tone  in  it  that  awakened  all  ele- 
vating associations.  He  boggled,  he  lost  his  place,  he 
had  to  put  on  his  glasses;  but  it  was  as  if  a  creature  from 
some  fairer  world  had  lost  his  way  in  our  fogs,  and  it 
was  our  fault,  not  his.  It  was  chaotic,  but  it  was  all 
such  stuff  as  stars  are  made  of,  and  you  couldn't  help 
feeling  that,  if  you  waited  awhile,  all  that  was  nebulous 
would  be  whirled  into  planets,  and  would  assume  the 
mathematical  gravity  of  system.  All  through  it  I  felt 
something  in  me  that  cried  "Ha,  ha,  to  the  sound  of  the 
trumpets!".  .  V 


448  JAMES    EUSSELL   LOWELL         (>Et.  50 

50] 


To   Miss   NORTON 
[ON  LETTER-WRITING] 

ELMWOOD,  April  6th,  1869. 

.  .  .  Authors,  my  altogether  dear  woman,  can't  write 
letters.  At  best  they  squeeze  out  an  essay  now  and  then, 
burying  every  natural  sprout  in  a  dry  and  dreary  sand- 
flood,  as  unlike  as  possible  to  those  delightful  freshets 
with  which  your  heart  overflows  the  paper.  They  are 
thinking  of  their  punctuation,  of  crossing  their  t's  and 
dotting  their  i's,  and  cannot  forget  themselves  in  their 
correspondent,  which  I  take  to  be  the  true  recipe  for  a 
letter.  .  .  .  Now,  you  know  that  the  main  excellence  of 
Oambridge  is  that  nothing  ever  happens  there.  Since 
the  founding  of  the  College,  in  1636,  there  has  been, 
properly  speaking,  no  event  till  J.  H.  began  to  build 
his  shops  on  the  parsonage-lot.  .  .  .  Elmwood  is  Cam- 
bridge at  the  fifth  power,  and  indeed  one  of  the  great 
merits  of  the  country  is  that  it  narcotizes  instead  of 
stimulating.  Even  Voltaire,  who  had  wit  at  will,  found 
Ferney  an  opiate,  and  is  forced  to  apologize  to  his  clever- 
est correspondent,  Mme.  du  Deffand  (do  you  remark  the 
adroitness  of  the  compliment  in  my  italicized  pronoun?) 
for  the  prolonged  gaps,  or  yawns,  in  his  letter-writing. 
Cowper,  a  first-rate  epistolizer,  was  sometimes  driven  to 
the  wall  in  the  same  way.  There  is  something  more  than 
mere  vacancy,  there  is  a  deep  principle  of  human  nature, 
in  the  first  question  of  man  to  man  when  they  meet  — 
"What  is  the  news?"  A  hermit  has  none.  I  fancy  if  I 
were  suddenly  snatched  away  to  London,  my  brain  would 
prickle  all  over,  as  a  foot  that  has  been  asleep  when  the 
blood  starts  in  it  again.  Books  are  good  dry  forage; 
we  can  keep  alive  on  them;  but,  after  all,  men  are  the 
only  fresh  pasture.  .  .  . 

We  have  had  a  very  long  winter  with  very  little 
snow.  It  is  still  cold,  but  the  birds  are  come,  and  the 
impatient  lovers  among  them  insist  on  its  being  spring. 
I  heard  a  blue-bird  several  weeks  ago,  but  the  next  day 
came  six  inches  of  snow.  The  sparrows  were  thp  first 
persistent  singers,  and  yesterday  the  robins  were  loud 


.Et.50]         JAMES    EUSSELL    LOWELL  449 

I  have  no  doubt  the  pines  at  Shady  Hill  are  all  a-creak 
with  blackbirds  by  this  time.  .  .  . 

I  have  nothing  else  in  the  way  of  novelty,  except  an 
expedient  I  hit  upon  for  my  hens  who  were  backward 
with  their  eggs.  On  rainy  days  I  set  William  to  reading 
aloud  to  them  the  Lay-Sermons  of  Coleridge,  and  the 
effect  was  magical.  Whether  their  consciences  were 
touched  or  they  wished  to  escape  the  preaching,  I  know 
not.  .  .  . 


[^Et.  50] 

To  T.  B.  ALDRICH 
["THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY"] 

ELMWOOD,  Nov.  30,  1869. 
My  dear  Aldricli, — 

It  is  a  capital  little  book — but  I  had  read  it  all  before, 
and  liked  it  thoroughly.  It  has  been  pretty  much  all 
my  novel  reading  all  summer.  I  think  it  is  wholesome, 
interesting,  and  above  all,  natural.  The  only  quarrel  I 
have  with  you  is  that  I  found  in  it  that  infamous  word 
"transpired."  E-pluribus-unum  it !  Why  not  "hap- 
pened"? You  are  on  the  very  brink  of  the  pit.  I  read 
in  the  paper  t'other  day  that  some  folks  had  "extended 
a  dinner  to  the  Hon."  Somebody  or  other.  There  was 
something  pleasing  to  the  baser  man  in  fancying  it  held 
out  in  a  pair  of  tongs,  as  too  many  of  our  Hon'bles 
deserve — but  consider  where  English  is  going! 

I  know  something  about  Rivermouth  myself;  only  be- 
fore you  were  born.  I  remember  in  my  seventh  year 
opening  a  long  red  chest  in  the  "mansion"  of  the  late 
famous  Dr.  Brackett,  and  being  confronted  with  a  skel- 
eton— the  first  I  had  ever  seen.  The  "Mysteries  of 
Udolpho"  were  nothing  to  it,  for  a  child,  somehow,  is 
apt  to  think  that  these  anatomies  are  always  made  so  by 
foul  means,  a  creed  which  I  still  hold  to  a  certain  extent. 

However,  I  am  not  writing  to  tell  you  about  myself — 
but  merely  to  say  how  much  I  like  your  little  book.  I 
wish  it  had  been  twice  as  large!  I  shall  send  you  a 
thin  one  of  my  own  before  long,  and  shall  be  content  if 
it  give  you  half  the  pleasure.  Make  my  kind  remem- 


450  JAMES    KUSSELL   LOWELL         |>Et.  53 

brances  acceptable  to  Mrs.  Aldrich,  and  tell  the  twins  I 
wish  they  may  both  grow  up  Bad  Boys. 

Cordially  yours, 

J.  B,.  LOWELL. 
[^Et.  53] 

To  C.  E.  NORTON 
["THE  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING"  AND  "REAL  ARTHURIAN 

ROMANCE"] 
HOTEL  DE  LORRAINE,  No.  7  RUE  DE  BEAUNE, 

PARIS,  Dec.  4,  1872. 

.  .  .  Oddly  enough  when  I  got  your  letter  about  Ten- 
nyson's poems  I  had  just  finished  reading  a  real  Arthu- 
rian romance — "Fergus" — not  one  of  the  best,  certainly, 
but  having  that  merit  of  being  a  genuine  blossom  for 
which  no  triumph  of  artifice  can  compensate;  having,  in 
short,  that  woodsy  hint  and  tantalization  of  perfume 
which  is  so  infinitely  better  than  anything  more  de- 
fined. Emerson  had  left  me  Tennyson's  book;  so  last 
night  I  took  it  to  bed  with  me  and  finished  it  at  a 
gulp — reading  like  a  naughty  boy  till  half-past  one. 
The  contrast  between  his  pomp  and  my  old  rhymer's 
simpleness  was  very  curious  and  even  instructive.  One 
bit  of  the  latter  (which  I  cannot  recollect  elsewhere) 
amused  me  a  good  deal  as  a  Yankee.  When  Fergus 
comes  to  Arthur's  court  and  Sir  Kay  "sarses"  him 
(which,  you  know,  is  de  rigeur  in  the  old  poems),  Sir 
Gawain  saunters  up  whittling  a  stick  as  a  medicine 
against  ennui.  So  afterwards,  when  Arthur  is  dreadfully 
bored  by  hearing  no  news  of  Fergus,  he  reclines  at  table 
without  any  taste  for  his  dinner,  and  whittles  to  purge 
his  heart  of  melancholy.  I  suppose  a  modern  poet  would 
not  dare  to  come  so  near  Nature  as  this  lest  she  should 
fling  up  her  heels.  But  I  am  not  yet  "an7  wi'  the  auld 
love,"  nor  quite  "on  with  the  new."  There  are  very  fine 
childish  things  in  Tennyson's  poems  and  fine  manly 
things,  too,  as  it  seems  to  me,  but  I  conceive  the  theory 
to  be  wrong.  I  have  the  same  feeling  (I  am  not  wholly 
sure  of  its  justice)  that  I  have  when  I  see  these  modern- 
mediaeval  pictures.  I  am  defrauded;  I  do  not  see  reality, 
but  a  masquerade.  The  costumes  are  all  that  is  genuine, 
and  the  people  inside  them  are  shams — which,  I  take  it, 


^Et.59]         JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  451 

is  just  the  reverse  of  what  ought  to  be.  One  special 
criticism  I  should  make  on  Tennyson's  new  Idylls,  and 
that  is  that  the  similes  are  so  often  dragged  in  by  the  hair. 
They  seem  to  be  taken  (a  la  Tom  Moore)  from  note- 
books, and  not  suggested  by  the  quickened  sense  of  asso- 
ciation in  the  glow  of  composition.  Sometimes  it  almost 
seems  as  if  the  verses  were  made  for  the  similes,  instead 
of  being  the  cresting  of  a  wave  that  heightens  as  it  rolls. 
This  is  analogous  to  the  costume  objection  and  springs 
perhaps  from  the  same  cause — the  making  of  poetry  with 
malice  prepense.  However,  I  am  not  going  to  forget 
the  lovely  things  that  Tennyson  has  written,  and  I  think 
they  give  him  rather  hard  measure  now.  However,  it  is 
the  natural  recoil  of  a  too  rapid  fame.  Wordsworth  had 
the  true  kind — an  unpopularity  that  roused  and  stimu- 
lated while  he  was  strong  enough  to  despise  it,  and  honor, 
obedience,  troops  of  friends,  when  the  grasshopper  would 
have  been  a  burthen  to  the  drooping  shoulders.  Tenny- 
son, to  be  sure,  has  been  childishly  petulant ;  but  what 
have  these  whipper-snappers,  who  cry  "Go  up,  bald  head," 
done  that  can  be  named  with  some  things  of  his?  He 
has  been  the  greatest  artist  in  words  we  have  had  since 
Gray — and  remember  how  Gray  holds  his  own  with  little 
fuel,  but  real  fire.  He  had  the  secret  of  the  inconsumable 
oil,  and  so,  I  fancy,  has  Tennyson. 

I  keep  on  picking  up  books  here  and  there,  but  I  shall 
be  forced  to  stop,  for  I  find  I  have  got  beyond  my  in- 
come. Still,  I  shall  try  gradually  to  make  my  Old 
French  and  Provencal  collection  tolerably  complete,  for 
the  temptation  is  great  where  the  field  is  definitely 
bounded.  . 


.  59] 

To  Miss  GRACE  NORTON 
[IMMORTALITY] 

MADRID,  March  7,  1878. 

...  I  don't  care  where  the  notion  of  immortality  came 
from.  If  it  sprang  out  of  a  controlling  necessity  of  our 
nature,  some  instinct  of  self-protection  and  preservation, 
like  the  color  of  some  of  Darwin's  butterflies,  at  any 


452  JAMES   KUSSELL   LOWELL         [JEt.  63 

rate  it  is  there  and  as  real  as  that,  and  I  mean  to  hold 
it  fast.  Suppose  we  don't  know,  how  much  do  we  know 
after  all?  There  are  times  when  one  doubts  his  own 
identity,  even  his  own  material  entity,  even  the  solidity 
of  the  very  earth  on  which  he  walks.  One  night,  the 
last  time  I  was  ill,  I  lost  all  consciousness  of  my  flesh. 
I  was  dispersed  through  space  in  some  inconceivable 
fashion,  and  mixed  with  the  Milky  Way.  It  was  with 
great  labor  that  I  gathered  myself  again  and  brought 
myself  within  compatible  limits,  or  so  it  seemed;  and  yet 
the  very  fact  that  I  had  a  confused  consciousness  all 
the  while  of  the  Milky  Way  as  something  to  be  mingled 
with  proved  that  I  was  there  as  much  an  individual  as 
ever.  .  .  . 

[^Et.  63] 

To  W.  D.  HOWELLS 
[ADVICE  TO  AN  AUTHOR] 
ASHRIDGE,  BERKHAMPSTEAD,  Dec.  21,  1882. 
Dear  Howells, — 

I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  letter,  though  it  put  me 
under  bonds  to  be  wiser  than  I  have  ever  had  the  skill 
to  be.  If  I  remember  rightly,  Panurge's  doubts  were 
increased  by  consulting  the  Oracle,  but  how  did  the 
Oracle  feel?  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  a  certain 
share  of  our  sympathy  should  go  in  that  direction  ? 

My  best  judgment  is  this,  and  like  all  good  judgment 
it  is  to  a  considerable  degree  on  both  sides  of  the  ques- 
tion. If  you  are  able  now,  without  overworking  mind  or 
body,  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door  and  to  lay  by 
something  for  a  rainy  day — and  I  mean,  of  course,  with- 
out being  driven  to  work  with  your  left  hand  because 
the  better  one  is  tired  out — I  should  refuse  the  offer,  or 
should  hesitate  to  accept  it.  If  you  are  a  systematic 
worker,  independent  of  moods,  and  sure  of  your  genius 
whenever  you  want  it,  there  might  be  no  risk  in  accepting. 
You  would  have  the  advantage  of  a  fixed  income  to  fall 
back  on.  Is  this  a  greater  advantage  than  the  want  of 
it  would  be  as  a  spur  to  industry?  Was  not  the  occa- 
sion of  Shakespeare's  plays  (I  don't  say  the  motive  of 
'em)  that  he  had  to  write?  And  are  any  of  us  likely  to 


^Et.63]         JAMES    KUSSELL    LOWELL  453 

be  better  inspired  than  he?  Does  not  inspiration,  in 
some  limited  sense  at  least,  come  with  the  exercise  there- 
of, as  the  appetite  with  eating?  Is  not  your  hand  better 
for  keeping  it  in,  as  they  say?  A  professorship  takes  a 
great  deal  of  time,  and,  if  you  teach  in  any  more  direct 
way  than  by  lectures,  uses  up  an  immense  stock  of  nerves. 
Your  inevitable  temptation  (in  some  sort  your  duty)  will 
be  to  make  yourself  learned — which  you  haven't  the  least 
need  to  be  as  an  author  (if  you  only  have  me  at  your 
elbow  to  correct  your  English  now  and  then,  naughty 
boy!).  If  you  can  make  your  professorship  a  thing  apart 
— but  can  you  and  be  honest?  I  believe  the  present 
generation  doesn't  think  I  was  made  for  a  poet,  but  I 
think  I  could  have  gone  nearer  convincing  'em  if  I  had 
not  estranged  the  muse  by  donning  a  professor's  gown. 
I  speak  of  myself  because  you  wanted  my  experience.  I 
am  naturally  indolent,  and  being  worked  pretty  hard 
in  the  College,  was  willing  to  be  content  with  the  amount 
of  work  that  was  squeezed  out  of  me  by  my  position, 
and  let  what  my  nature  might  otherwise  have  forced  me 
into  go.  As  I  said  before,  if  you  can  reckon  on  your 
own  temperament,  accept.  If  you  have  a  doubt,  don't. 
I  think  you  will  divine  what  I  am  driving  at. 

I  find  everybody  here  reading  your  books,  and  you 
know  very  well  how  much  pleasure  that  gives  me.  They 
wish  to  see  you,  and  I  hope  when  you  come  back  you 
will  stay  and  let  'em  do  it.  I  wish  you  could  know 
my  hostess,  for  instance — noble  in  all  senses  of  the  word. 
I  am  staying  here  for  a  few  days  with  a  large  party  in 
a  house  as  big  as  a  small  town,  and  a  beautiful  country 
of  hill  and  dale  and  gray  birch  wood's.  Enough  to  say 
that  there  was  once  a  convent  here.  The  monks  always 
had  an  eye  for  country. 

You  will  have  to  be  very  fine  when  you  show  your- 
self in  England,  to  look  like  the  portrait  I  have  painted 
of  you — but  I  am  willing  to  take  the  venture. 

Inexorable  lunch  has  sounded,  and  I  must  say  good- 
by.  I  should  say,  on  the  whole — it  is  safe  to  ask  my 
advice,  but  not  to  follow  it.  But  then  people  never  do. 

.  .  .  Love  to  all. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  K.  L. 


454  JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL         [>Et.  70 

|>Et.  70] 

To  MRS.  LESLIE  STEPHEN 
[A  GRAVE  ROOK] 

WHITBY,  Sept.   11,   1889, 

.  .  .  For  the  last  few  days  we  have  been  having  Amer- 
ican weather,  except  for  the  haze  which  softens  and 
civilizes  (perhaps  I  should  say,  artistically  generalizes) 
all  it  touches,  like  the  slower  hand  of  time.  It  does  in 
a  moment  what  the  other  is  too  long  about  for  the  brevity 
of  our  lives.  How  I  do  love  this  unemphatic  landscape, 
which  suggests  but  never  defines,  in  which  so  much 
license  is  left  to  conjecture  and  divination,  as  when  one 
looks  into  the  mysterious  beyond.  And  how  the  robins 
and  some  other  little  minstrels  whose  names  I  don't  know 
keep  on  pretending  it  is  the  very  fresh  of  the  year.  I 
think  few  people  are  made  as  happy  by  the  singing  of 
birds  as  I,  and  this  autumnal  music  (unknown  at  home), 
every  bush  a  song,  is  one  of  the  things  that  especially 
endear  England  to  me.  Even  without  song,  birds  are 
a  perpetual  delight,  and  the  rooks  alone  are  enough  to 
make  this  country  worth  living  in.  I  wish  you  could 
see  a  rook  who  every  morning  busies  himself  among  the 
chimney-pots  opposite  my  chamber  window.  For  a  good 
while  I  used  to  hear  his  chuckle,  but  thought  he  was  only 
flying  over.  But  one  day  I  got  out  of  bed  and  looked 
out.  There  he  was  on  the  top  of  a  chimney  opposite, 
perambulating  gravely,  and  now  and  then  cocking  his 
head  and  looking  down  a  flue.  Then  he  would  chuckle 
and  go  to  another.  Then  to  the  next  chimney  and 
da  capo.  He  found  out  what  they  were  going  to  have  for 
breakfast  in  every  house,  and  whether  he  enjoyed  an 
imaginary  feast  or  reckoned  on  a  chance  at  some  of  the 
leavings  I  know  not,  but  he  was  evidently  enjoying  him- 
self, and  that  is  always  a  consoling  thing  to  see.  Even 
in  the  stingy  back-yards  of  these  houses  too,  wherever 
there  is  a  disconsolate  shrub,  a  robin  comes  every  morn- 
ing to  cheer  it  up  a  bit  and  help  it  along  through  the 
day. 

Since  I  wrote  what  I  did  about  the  weather  (one 
should  always  let  the  Eumenides  alone)  it  has  begun 
to  rain,  but  gently,  like  a  rain  that  was  trying  to  dis- 


Mt.  70]         JAMES    KUSSELL   LOWELL  455 

criminate  between  the  just  and  the  unjust,  and  sympa- 
thized with  those  confiding  enough  to  leave  their  um- 
brellas behind  them  (I  hate  to  expose  mine  any  more 
than  I  can  help,  for  reasons  of  my  own).  So  the  rain 
let  me  get  back  dry  from  the  beach,  whither  I  had  gone 
for  a  whiff  of  salt  air  and  a  few  earfuls  of  that  muffled 
crash  of  the  surf  which  is  so  soothing — perpetual  ruin 
with  perpetual  renewal. 

I  wonder  if  your  moors  have  been  as  gracious  as  ours 
this  year.  I  never  know  how  deeply  they  impress  me 
till  long  after  I  have  left  them,  and  then  I  wonder  at 
the  store  of  images  wherewith  they  have  peopled  my 
memory.  But  what  is  the  use  of  my  asking  you  any 
questions  when  you  tell  me  you  could  not  read  my  last 
letter?  Was  it  the  blue  paper  with  its  ribs  that  made 
a  corduroy  road  for  my  pen  to  jolt  over,  I  wonder,  or 
my  failing  eyesight,  or — and  this  is  saddest  to  think  of — 
the  dulness  of  the  letter  itself?  Is  this  better?  I  am 
trying  to  write  as  well  as  I  can  for  my  dear  and  admirable 
friend,  but  what  would  you  have  ?  How  should  one  write 
letters  worth  reading  who  has  so  many  to  write  as  I? 
But  never  mind.  The  true  use  of  a  letter  is  to  let  one 
know  that  one  is  remembered  and  valued,  and  as  you 
are  sure  of  that,  perhaps  I  need  not  write  at  all!  No, 
the  true  use  of  writing  is  that  it  brings  your  friend  to 
you  as  you  write,  and  so  I  have  your  sweet  society  for 
a  while,  and  you  need  have  only  just  as  much  of  mine 
as  you  choose  to  give  yourself.  .  .  . 


.  70] 

To  THE  MISSES  LAWRENCE 
[LIFE  AT  ELMWOOD] 

ELMWOOD,   CAMBRIDGE,,   MASS.,, 

Jan.  2,  1890. 

.  .  .  Here  I  am  again  in  the  house  where  I  was  born 
longer  ago  than  you  can  remember,  though  I  wish  you 
more  New  Year's  days  than  I  have  had.  'Tis  a  pleasant 
old  house  just  about  twice  as  old  as  I  am,  four  miles 
from  Boston,  in  what  was  once  the  country  and  is  now 
a  populous  suburb.  But  it  still  has  some  ten  acres  of 


456  JAMES    EUSSELL    LOWELL         [>Et.  70 

open  about  it,  and  some  fine  old  trees.  When  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst  (if  I  live  so  long)  I  shall  still  have 
four  and  a  half  acres  left  with  the  house,  the  rest  be- 
longing to  my  brothers  and  sisters  or  their  heirs.  It  is 
a  square  house  with  four  rooms  on  a  floor,  like  some 
houses  of  the  Georgian  era  I  have  seen  in  English  pro- 
vincial towns,  only  they  are  of  brick  and  this  is  of  wood. 
But  it  is  solid  with  its  heavy  oaken  beams,  the  spaces 
between  which  in  the  four  outer  walls  are  filled  in  with 
brick,  though  you  mustn't  fancy  a  brick-and-timber 
house,  for  outwardly  it  is  sheathed  with  wood.  Inside 
there  is  much  wainscot  (of  deal)  painted  white  in  the 
fashion  of  the  time  when  it  was  built.  It  is  very  sunny, 
the  sun  rising  so  as  to  shine  (at.  an  acute  angle,  to  be 
sure)  through  the  northern  windows,  and  going  round 
the  other  three  sides  in  the  course  of  the  day.  There  is 
a  pretty  staircase  with  the  quaint  old  twisted  banisters — 
which  they  call  balusters  now,  but  mine  are  banisters. 
My  library  occupies  two  rooms  opening  into  each  other 
by  arches  at  the  sides  of  the  ample  chimneys.  The 
trees  I  look  out  on  are  the  earliest  things  I  remember. 
There  you  have  me  in  my  new-old  quarters.  But  you 
must  not  fancy  a  large  house — rooms  sixteen  feet  square 
and,  on  the  ground  floor,  nine  high.  It  was  large,  as 
things  went  here,  when  it  was  built,  and  has  a  certain 
air  of  amplitude  about  it  as  from  some  inward  sense 
of  dignity. 

•  Now  for  out  of  doors.  What  do  you  suppose  the  ther- 
mometer is  about  on  this  second  day  of  January?  I  was 
going  to  say  he  was  standing  on  his  head — at  any  rate 
he  has  forgotten  what  he's  about,  and  is  marking  sixty- 
three  degrees  Fahrenheit  on  the  north  side  of  the  house 
and  in  the  shade!  Where  is  that  sense  of  propriety  that 
once  belonged  to  the  seasons?  This  is  flat  communism, 
January  insisting  on  going  halves  with  May.  News  I 
have  none,  nor  other  resources,  as  you  see,  save  those  of 
the  special  correspondent,  who  takes  to  description  when 
events  fail.  Yes,  I  have  one  event.  I  dine  to-night  with 
Mr.  R.  C.  Winthrop,  who  remembers  your  father  very 
well  nearly  sixty  years  ago. 

I  have  all  my  grandchildren  with  me,  five  of  them,  and 
•&e  eldest  boy  is  already  conspiring  with  a  beard!     It  is 


^Et.  44]  WALT   WHITMAN  457 

awful,  this  stealthy  advance  of  Time's  insupportable  foot. 
There  are  two  ponies  for  the  children  and  two  dogs,  bull- 
terriers,  and  most  amiable  creatures.  This  is  my  estab- 
lishment, and  four  of  the  weans  have  had  the  grippe. 
I  remember  it  here  in  '31,  I  think  it  was.  You  see  I 
make  all  I  can  of  age's  one  privilege — that  of  having  a 
drearier  memory  than  other  folks. 

I  forgot  one  thing.  There  are  plenty  of  mice  in  the 
walls,  and,  now  that  I  can't  go  to  the  play  with  you,  I 
assist  at  their  little  tragedies  and  comedies  behind  the 
wainscot  in  the  night-hours  and  build  up  plots  in -my 
fancy.  'Tis  a  French  company,  for  I  hear  them  dis- 
tinctly say  wee',  wee,  sometimes.  My  life,  you  see,  is 
not  without  its  excitements,  and  what  are  your  London 
mice  doing  that  is  more  important?  I  see  you  are  to 
have  a  Parnell  scandal  at  last,  but  I  overheard  an  elope- 
ment the  other  night  behind  the  wainscot,  and  the  so- 
licitors talking  it  over  with  the  desolated  husband  after- 
wards. It  was  very  exciting.  Ten  thousand  grains  of 
corn  damaged! 

Good-by,  'and  take  care  of  yourselves  till  I  come  with 
the  daffodils.  I  wish  you  both  many  a  happy  New  Year 
and  a  share  for  me  in  some  of  them.  Poets  seem  to  live 
long  nowadays,  and  I,  too,  live  in  Arcadia  after  my 
own  fashion. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  E.  L. 


[>Et.44]  WALT    WHITMAN 

1819-1892 

To  HIS  MOTHER 

[IN  A  WAR  HOSPITAL] 

WASHINGTON  July  22,  1863 

This  afternoon,  July  22d,  I  have  spent  a  long  time 
with  Oscar  F.  Wilber,  Company  G,  154th  New  York, 
low  with  chronic  diarrhoea  and  a  bad  wound  also.  He 
asked  me  to  read  him  a  chapter  in  the  New  Testament. 
I  complied,  and  ask'd  him  what  I  should  read.  He  said, 
"Make  your  own  choice."  I  open'd  at  the  close  of  one 
of  the  first  books  of  the  evangelists,  and  read  the  chap- 


458  CHAKLES    KINGSLEY  |>Et.  23 

ters  describing  the  latter  hours  of  Christ,  and  the  scenes 
at  the  crucifixion.  The  poor,  wasted  young  man  ask'd 
me  to  read  the  following  chapter  also,  how  Christ  rose 
again.  I  read  very  slowly,  for  Oscar  was  feeble.  It 
pleased  him  very  much,  yet  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 
He  ask'd  me  if  I  enjoy'd  religion.  I  said,  "Perhaps  not, 
my  dear,  in  the  way  you  mean,  and  yet,  may-be,  it  is  the 
same  thing."  He  said,  "It  is  my  chief  reliance."  He 
talked  of  death,  and  said  he  did  not  fear  it.  I  said, 
"Why,  Oscar,  don't  you  think  'you  will  get  well?"  He 
said,  "I  may,  but  it  is  not  probable."  He  spoke  calmly 
of  his  condition.  The  wound  was  very  bad;  it  dis- 
charg'd  much.  Then  the  diarrhoea  had  prostrated  him, 
and  I  felt  he  was  even  then  the  same  as  dying.  He 
beha_ved  very  manly  and  'affectionate.  The  kiss  I  gave 
him  as  I  was  about  leaving  he  return'd  fourfold.  He 
gave  me  his  mother's  address,  Mrs.  Sally  D.  Wilber,  Alle- 
ghany  Post  Office,  Cattaraugus  County,  N.  Y.  I  had 
several  such  interviews  with  him.  He  died  a  few  days 
after  the  one  just  described. 


[^Et.23]  CHARLES    KINGSLEY 

1819-1875 
To  MR.  WOOD 

["THE  EVERLASTING  HILLS  AND  THE  EVERLASTING  BORES"] 

[1842] 
Peter! 

Whether  in  the  glaring  saloons  of  Almack's,  or  making 
love  in  the  equestrian  stateliness  of  the  park,  or  the  lux- 
urious recumbency  of  the  ottoman,  whether  breakfasting 
at  one,  or  going  to  bed  at  three,  thou  art  still  Peter,  the 
beloved  of  my  youth,  the  staff  of  my  academic  days,  the 
regret  of  my  parochial  retirement! — Peter!  I  am  alone! 
Around  me  are  the  everlasting  hills,  and  the  everlasting 
bores  of  the  country !  My  parish  is  peculiar  for  nothing 
but  want  of  houses  and  abundance  of  peat  bogs ;  my 
parishioners  remarkable  only  for  aversion  to  education, 
and  a  predilection  for  fat  bacon.  I  am  wasting  my 
sweetness  on  the  desert  air — I  say  my  sweetness,  for  I 


JEt.  35]  GEORGE    ELIOT  459 

have  given  up  smoking,  and  smell  no  more.  Oh,  Peter, 
Peter,  come  down  and  see  me!  Oh  that  I  could  behold 
your  head  towering  above  the  fir-trees  that  surround  my 
lonely  dwelling.  Take  pity  on  me!  I  am  "like  a  kitten 
in  the  washhouse  copper  with  the  lid  on!"  And,  Peter, 
prevail  on  some  of  your  friends  here  to  give  me  a  day's 
trout-fishing,  for  my  hand  is  getting  out  of  practice. 
But,  Peter,  I  am,  considering  the  oscillations  and  perplex 
circumgurgitations  of  this  piece-meal  world,  an  improved 
man.  I  am  much  more  happy,  much  more  comfortable, 
reading,  thinking,  and  doing  my  duty — much  more  than 
ever  I  did  before  in  my  life.  Therefore  I  am  not  dis- 
contented with  my  situation,  or  regretful  that  I  buried 
my  first-class  in  a  country  curacy,  like  the  girl  who  shut 
herself  up  in  a  band-box  on  her  wedding  night  (vide 
Rogers's  "Italy")-  And  my  lamentations  are  not  gen- 
eral (for  I  do  not  want  an  inundation  of  the  froth  and 
tide-wash  of  Babylon  the  Great),  but  particular,  being 
solely  excited  by  want  of  thee,  oh  Peter,  who  art  very 
pleasant  to  me,  and  wouldst  be  more  so  if  thou  wouldst 
come  and  eat  my  mutton,  and  drink  my  wine,  and  admire 
my  sermons,  some  Sunday  at  Eversley. 
Your  faithful  friend, 

BOANERGES  ROAR-AT-THE  CLODS. 


[•^Et.35]  GEORGE    ELIOT 

1819-1880 

To  MRS.  BRAY 

[GEORGE  HENRY  LEWES] 

4th  September,  1855. 

...  If  there  is  any  one  action  or  relation  of  my  life 
which  is,  and  always  has  been,  profoundly  serious,  it  is 
my  relation  to  Mr.  Lewes.  It  is,  however,  natural  enough 
that  you  should  mistake  me  in  many  ways,  for  not  only 
are  you  unacquainted  with  Mr.  Lewes's  real  character 
and  the  course  of  his  actions,  but  also  it  is  several  years 
now  since  you  and  I  were  much  together,  and  it  is 
possible  that  the  modifications  my  mind  has  undergone 
may  be  quite  in  the  opposite  direction  of  what  you  im- 


460  GEOKGE    ELIOT  |>Et.  35 

agine.  No  one  can  be  better  aware  than  yourself  that 
it  is  possible  for  two  people  to  hold  different  opinions 
on  momentous  subjects  with  equal  sincerity,  and  an 
equally  earnest  conviction  that  their  respective  opinions 
are  alone  the  truly  moral  ones.  If  we  differ  on  the 
subject  of  the  marriage  laws,  I  at  least  can  believe  of 
you  that  you  cleave  to  what  you  believe  to  be  good; 
and  I  don't  know  of  anything  in  the  nature  of  your 
views  that  should  prevent  you  from  believing  the  same 
of  me.  How  far  we  differ  I  think  we  neither  of  us  know, 
for  I  am  ignorant  of  your  precise  views;  and,  apparently, 
you  attribute  to  me  both  feelings  and  opinions  which  are 
not  mine.  We  cannot  set  each  other  quite  right  in  this 
matter  in  letters,  but  one  thing  I  can  tell  you  in  few 
words.  Light  and  easily  broken  ties  are  what  I  neither 
desire  theoretically  nor  could  live  for  practically.  Women 
who  are  satisfied  with  such  ties  do  not  act  as  I  have  done. 
That  any  unworldly,  unsuperstitious  person  who  is  suf- 
ficiently acquainted  with  the  realities  of  life  can  pro- 
nounce my  relation  to  Mr.  Lewes  immoral,  I  can  only 
understand  by  remembering  how  subtile  and  complex  are 
the  influences  that  mould  opinion.  But  I  do  remember 
this:  and  I  indulge  in  no  arrogant  or  uncharitable 
thoughts  about  those  who  condemn  us,  even  though  we 
might  have  expected  a  somewhat  different  verdict.  From 
the  majority  of  persons,  of  course,  we  never  looked  for 
anything  but  condemnation.  We  are  leading  no  life  of 
self-indulgence,  except,  indeed,  that,  being  happy  in  each 
other,  we  find  everything  easy.  We  are  working  hard 
to  provide  for  others  better  than  we  provide  for  ourselves, 
and  to  fulfil  every  responsibility  that  lies  upon  us.  Levity 
and  pride  would  not  be  a  sufficient  basis  for  that.  Par- 
don me  if,  in  vindicating  myself  from  some  unjust  con- 
clusions, I  seem  too  cold  and  self-asserting.  I  should 
not  care  to  vindicate  myself  if  I  did  not  love  you  and 
desire  to  relieve  you  of  the  pain  which  you  say  these 
conclusions  have  given  you.  Whatever  I  may  have  mis- 
interpreted before,  I  do  not  misinterpret  your  letter  this 
morning,  but  read  in  it  nothing  else  than  love  and  kind- 
ness towards  me,  to  which  my  heart  fully  answers  yes. 
I  should  like  never  to  write  about  my  self  again;  it  is 
not  healthy  to  dwell  on  one's  own  feelings  and  conduct, 


Mt.  37]  MATTHEW   ARNOLD  461 

but  only  to  try  and  live  more  faithfully  and  lovingly 
each  fresh  day.  I  think  not  one  of  the  endless  words 
and  deeds  of  kindness  and  forbearance  you  have  ever 
shown  me  has  vanished  from  my  memory.  I  recall  them 
often,  -and  feel,  as  about  everything  else  in  the  past, 
how  deficient  I  have  been  in  almost  every  relation  of  my 
life.  But  that  deficiency  is  irrevocable,  and  I  can  find 
no  strength  or  comfort  except  in  "pressing  forward 
towards  the  things  that  are  before,"  and  trying  to  make 
the  present  better  than  the  past.  But  if  we  should  never 
be  very  near  each  other  again,  dear  Cara,  do  bear  this 
faith  in  your  mind,  that  I  was  not  insensible  or  un- 
grateful to  all  your  goodness,  and  that  I  am  one  among 
the  many  for  whom  you  have  not  lived  in  vain.  I  am 
very  busy  just  now,  and  have  been  obliged  to  write  hastily. 
Bear  this  in  mind,  and  believe  that  no  meaning  is  mine 
which  contradicts  my  assurance  that  I  am  your  affec- 
tionate and  earnest  friend. 


[>Et.  37]  MATTHEW   AKNOLD 

1822-1888 

To  Miss  ARNOLD 

[TENNYSON  "DEFICIENT  IN  INTELLECTUAL  POWER"] 

2  CHESTER  SQUARE,  December  17,  1860. 
,  .  .  I  have  at  last  got  the  Commissioner's  distinct 
leave  to  publish  my  Report,  with  additions,  as  a  book.  It 
will  appear  in  February.  By  the  time  you  come  I  hope 
to  have  finished-  the  introduction  to  that  and  to  have  got 
it  printed,  and  to  be  well  plunged  in  the  Middle  Age.  I 
have  a  strong  sense  of  the  irrationality  of  that  period, 
and  of  the  utter  folly  of  those  who  take  it  seriously,  and 
play  at  restoring  it;  still,  it  has  poetically  the  greatest 
charm  and  refreshment  possible  for  me.  The  fault  I  find 
with  Tennyson  in  his  Idylls  of  the  King  is  that  the  pe- 
culiar charm  and  aroma  of  the  Middle  Age  he  does  not 
give  in  them.  There  is  something  magical  about  it,  and 
I  will  do  something  with  it  before  I  have  done.  The 
real  truth  is  that  Tennyson,  with  all  his  temperament  and 
artistic  skill,  is  deficient  in  intellectual  power;  and  no 


462  MATTHEW   ARNOLD  [^Et.38 

modern  poet  can  make  very  much  of  his  business  unless 
he  is  pre-eminently  strong  in  this.  Goethe  owes  his 
grandeur  to  his  strength  in  this,  although  it  even  hurt 
his  poetical  operations  by  its  immense  predominance. 
However,  it  would  not  do  for  me  to  say  this  about  Ten- 
nyson, though  gradually  I  mean  to  say  boldly  the  truth 
about  a  great  many  English  celebrities,  and  begin  with 
Ruskin  in  these  lectures  on  Homer.  I  have  been  read- 
ing a  great  deal  in  the  Iliad  again  lately,  and  though  it 
is  too  much  to  say,  as  the  writer  in  the  Biographic  Uni- 
verselle  says,  that  "None  but  an  Englishman  would  dream 
of  matching  Shakespeare  with  the  Greeks,"  yet  it  is  true 
that  Homer  leaves  him  with  all  his  unequalled  gift — and 
certainly  there  never  was  any  such  naturally  gifted  poet 
— as  far  behind  as  perfection  leaves  imperfection. 


38] 

To  HIS  MOTHER 
[THE  WHITE  HORSE  VALE;  CUMNOR] 

OXFORD,  May  14,  1861. 

My  dearest  Mother, — 

I  have  to  thank  you  for  two  letters — a  long  one,  and 
a  note  returning  a  letter  (of  no  importance)  of  a  Rus- 
sian count  who  had  been  sent  with  a  letter  to  me.  This 
is  the  first  summer,  or,  indeed,  spring  day.  The  wind 
changed  in  the  night,  and  to-day  it  is  south-west,  with 
the  lights  and  airs  as  they  only  can  be  with  the  wind  in 
that  quarter  in  May,  and  spring  coming  on  in  its  glory 
over  all  the  country.  One  long,  rigid  succession  of  black 
north-east  winds  we  have  had,  lasting  even  through  the 
rain  of  Saturday  and  Sunday.  I  thought  they  would 
never  end,  and  was  really  depressed  by  them.  Even  this 
country  I  am  so  fond  of  looked  forbidding,  and  the 
flowers  themselves  were  no  pleasure.  However,  the  change 
has  come  at  last.  About  old  May  Day  (yesterday)  they 
say  one  may  always  look  for  fine  weather,  and  the  rain, 
ungenial  as  it  was,  has  wetted  the  ground  and  vegeta- 
tion so  thoroughly  that  now  the  warmth  has  come  there 
is  yet  no  sensation  of  dryness.  I  have  been  at  Wantage 
-to-day — King  Alfred's  birthplace.  A  wonderful,  quiet 


-ffit.  38]  MATTHEW   ARNOLD  463 

old  Berkshire  town,  in  the  White  Horse  Vale  at  the  foot 
of  the  downs.  I  started  by  the  half-past  seven  train  this 
morning,  and  then  drove  four  miles  from  Farringdon 
Road.  The  Vale  is  nearly  all  grass  fields,  with  trees  in 
a  park-like  way  about  them,  and  every  village  quite  clus- 
tered round  with  elms;  and  the  line  of  the  downs  bound- 
ing it  all  has  great  character,  and  has  always  been  a 
favourite  object  with  me.  Presently  I  am  going  to  my 
old  haunts  among  the  Cumnor  hills,  and  shall  come  back 
with  plenty  of  orchises  and  blue-bells.  I  left  Wantage 
at  half -past  twelve,  and  am  back  here  by  two,  having  had 
a  biscuit  and  some  mulled  claret  at  Didcot.  Getting 
back  so  early  is  one's  reward  for  getting  up  early.  I  am 
wonderfully  changed  about  that,  now  that  without  the 
slightest  effort  I  get  up  at  six,  and  walk  down  more  than 
half  a  mile  to  take  the  early  train  at  half -past  seven.  It 
is  a  great  thing  in  my  favour  (and  that  advantage  I  have 
always  had)  that  I  am  utterly  indifferent  about  the  time 
of  my  breakfast,  and  can  wait  for  it  till  such  time  as  it 
pleases  Providence  to  send  it  me.  I  always  like  this 
place,  and  the  intellectual  life  here  is  certainly  much 
more  intense  than  it  used  to  be;  but  this  has  its  disad- 
vantages too,  in  the  envies,  hatreds,  and  jealousies  that 
come  with  the  activity  of  mind  of  most  men.  Goldwin 
Smith,  whose  attack  on  Stanley's  Edinburgh  article  has 
made  much  noise,  is  a  great  element  of  bitterness  and 
strife,  though  personally  a  most  able,  in  some  respects 
even  interesting,  man ;  the  result  is  that  all  the  world 
here  seems  more  perturbed  and  exacerbated  than  of  old. 
If  I  was  disposed  to  fly  for  refuge  to  the  country  and 
its  sights  and  sounds  against  the  rather  humdrum  life 
which  prevailed  here  in  old  times,  how  much  more  am  I 
disposed  to  do  this  now,  convinced  as  I  am  that  irrita- 
tions and  envy  ings  are  not  only  negatively  injurious  to 
one's  spirit,  like  dulness,  but  positively  and  actively.  .  .  . 

Your  ever  affectionate, 
M.  A. 


464  MATTHEW    AKNOLD  [^Et.40 

[>Et.  40] 

To  HIS  MOTHER 
["THOUGH  BOLD,  NEVER  PARADOXICAL"] 

THE  ATHEN.EUM,  October  13,  1863. 
My  dearest  Mother, — 

I  will  write  to-day,  as  I  am  not  sure  of  to-morrow,  but 
I  hope  that  we  shall  still  keep,  as  far  as  possible,  our  old 
days  for  writing.  What  a  happy  time  we  had  at  Fox 
How,  and  what  a  delightful  recollection  I  have,  and  shall 
long  have,  of  you  with  the  children,  particularly  with  the 
two  dear  little  girls!  Habit  reconciles  one  to  everything, 
but  I  am  not  yet  by  any  means  reconciled  to  the  change 
from  our  Fox  How  life  to  our  life  here.  Breakfast  is 
particularly  dismal,  when  I  come  into  the  dining-room 
to  find  nobody,  instead  of  finding  you,  to  look  out  on  the 
whity-brown  road  and  houses  of  the  square,  instead  of 
looking  into  Fairfield,  and  to  eat  my  breakfast  without 
hearing  any  letters  read  aloud  by  Fan.  At  this  time*  of 
year  I  have  a  particular  liking  for  the  country,  and  the 
weather  on  Sunday  and  yesterday  was  so  beautiful  that 
it  made  me  quite  restless  to  be  off  again.  To-day  it  is 
raining,  and  that  composes  me  a  little.  I  send  you  a  note 
of  Lady  de  Rothschild's,  which  you  may  burn.  The 
Westminster  article  she  was  the  first  to  tell  me  of.  I 
must  send  it  you.  It  is  a  contrast  (all  in  my  favour)  of 
me  with  Ruskin.  It  is  the  strongest  pronunciamento  on 
my  side  there  has  yet  been;  almost  too  strong  for  my 
liking,  as  it  may  provoke  a  feeling  against  me.  The  re- 
viewer says,  "Though  confident,  Mr.  Arnold  is  never  self- 
willed;  though  bold,  he  is  never  paradoxical."  Tell  Fan 
to  remember  this  in  future  when  she  plays  croquet  with 
me.  I  also  keep  it  as  a  weapon  against  K.,  who  said  to 
me  that  I  was  becoming  as  dogmatic  as  Ruskin.  I  told 
her  the  difference  was  that  Ruskin  was  "dogmatic  and 
wrong,"  and  here  is  this  charming  reviewer  who  comes  to 
confirm  me. 

My  love  to  dear  Fan,  and  thanks  for  her  note;  love  too 
to  dear  old  Susy. — Your  ever  most  affectionate 

M.  A. 


^Et.  41]  MATTHEW   ARNOLD  465 

[JEt.  41] 

To  HIS  MOTHER 

["BUT  OF  THIS  INWARD  SPRING  ONE  MUST  NOT  TALK"] 

THE  ATHEN.EUM,  LONDON, 

December  24,  1863. 
My  dearest  Mother, — 

Business  first.  I  am  delighted  with  the  wooden  plat- 
ter and  bread  knife,  for  which  articles  I  have  long  had 
a  fancy ;  the  platter  too  I  like  all  the  better  for  not  having 
an  inscription,  only  a  border  of  corn  ears.  Dear  Row- 
land's book  has  not  yet  come.  Thank  her  for  it  all  the 
same,  and  tell  her  I  will  write  to  her  when  I  receive  it. 
And  thank  dear  K.  for  her  letter,  and  dear  Fan  for  her 
note,  and  receive  all  my  thanks  for  your  own,  my  dearest 
mother. 

While  writing  these  last  words  I  have  heard  the  start- 
ling news  of  the  sudden  death  of  Thackeray.  He  was 
found  dead  in  his  bed  this  morning.  If  you  have  not 
seen  it  in  the  newspapers  before  you  read  this,  you  will 
all  be  greatly  startled  and  shocked,  as  I  am.  I  have  heard 
no  particulars.  I  cannot  say  that  I  thoroughly  liked  him, 
though  we  were  on  friendly  terms;  and  he  is  not,  to  my 
thinking,  a  great  writer.  Still,  this  sudden  cessation  of 
an  existence  so  lately  before  one's  eyes,  so  vigorous  and 
full  of  life,  and  so  considerable  a  power  in  the  country, 
is  very  sobering,  if,  indeed,  after  the  shock  of  a  fort- 
night ago,  one  still  needs  sobering.  To-day  I  am  forty- 
one,  the  middle  of  life,  in  any  case,  and  for  me,  perhaps, 
much  more  than  the  middle.  I  have  ripened,  and  am 
ripening  so  slowly,  that  I  shall  be  glad  of  as  much  time 
as  possible,  yet  I  can  feel,  I  rejoice  to  say,  an  inward 
spring  which  seems  more  and  more  to  gain  strength,  and 
to  promise  to  resist  outward  shocks,  if  they  must  come, 
however  rough.  But  of  this  inward  spring  one  must  not 
talk,  for  it  does  not  like  being  talked  about,  and  threat- 
ens to  depart  if  one  will  no":  leave  it  in  mystery.  .  .  . 

My  love  to  all  at  Fox  How  on  Christmas  Day. 

Your  ever  most  affectionate 
M.  A. 


466  MATTHEW    ARNOLD  [>Et.  60 

60] 


To  Miss  ARNOLD 
[IMPRESSIONS  OF  AMERICA] 

THE  ST.  BOTOLPH  CLUB, 
85  BOYLSTON  STREET,  BOSTON, 

November  8,  1883. 
My  dearest  Fan,  — 

Here  is  Thursday,  and  my  Sunday  letter  has  not  yet 
been  written;  but  you  have  heard  from  Flu,  and  she  will 
have  given  you  some  notion  of  what  our  life  here  is.  I 
hope,  however,  to  write  once  in  every  week  to  you.  I 
wrote  last  from  New  York,  before  my  first  lecture.  I  was 
badly  heard,  and  many  people  were  much  disappointed; 
but  they  remained  to  the  end,  were  perfectly  civil  and 
attentive,  and  applauded  me  when  I  had  done.  It  made 
me  doubtful  about  going  on  with  the  lecturing,  however, 
as  I  felt  I  could  not  maintain  a  louder  pitch  of  voice 
than  I  did  in  Chickering  Hall,  where  I  lectured,  and 
some  of  the  American  Halls  are  much  larger.  There  is 
a  good  deal  to  be  learned  as  to  the  management  of  the 
voice,  however,  and  I  have  set  myself  to  learn  it,  though 
I  am  old  to  begin;  the  kindness  of  the  people  he,re  makes 
everything  easier,  as  they  are  determined  to  like  one.  The 
strength  of  the  feeling  about  papa,  here  in  New  England 
especially,  would  gratify  you;  and  they  have  been  dili- 
gent readers  of  my  books  for  years.  The  number  of  peo- 
ple whom,  somehow  or  other,  I  reach  here  is  what  sur- 
prises me.  Imagine  General  Grant  calling  at  the  Tribune 
Office  to  thank  them  for  their  good  report  of  the  main 
points  of  my  lecture,  as  he  had  thought  the  line  taken  so 
very  important,  but  had  heard  imperfectly  !  Now  I  should 
not  have  suspected  Grant  of  either  knowing  or  caring 
anything  whatever  about  me  and  my  productions.  Last 
night  I  gave  my  New  York  lecture  here.  The  hall  was 
crammed,  but  it  only  holds  900,  where  the  New  York  hall 
holds  1300;  I  had  refused  to  try  a  bigger  hall  here.  I  was 
introduced  by  Dr.  Oliver  W.  Holmes,  a  dear  little  old 
man,  and  perfectly  heard.  I  spoke  much  better  than  at 
New  York,  and  shall  improve  still  further,  I  hope. 
Holmes  told  me  he  could  not  have  believed  such  an  audi- 
ence could  have  been  gathered  for  a  lecture  in  the  heat 
of  their  election  of  a  Governor  for  the  State  of  Massa- 


.Et.  60]  MATTHEW   ARNOLD  467 

chusetts;  and  he  said  also  that  he  had  never  seen  such 
attention  and  interest.  We  went  from  New  York  to  Mr. 
Charles  Butler  at  Fox  Meadow  —  a  beautiful  old  charac- 
ter with  a  delightful  daughter.  Lyulph  Stanley  sent  us 
to  him.  From  him  we  went  to  the  Delanos,  90  miles  up 
the  Hudson.  She  was  a  Miss  Astor,  and  it  was  like  stay- 
ing with  the  Rothschilds.  All  along  the  Hudson  it  is 
like  the  rich  and  finished  villas  along  the  Thames  by 
Richmond.  We  came  here  on  Monday  night.  Next  week 
we  shall  be  paying  visits,  but  we  shall  be  on  and  off  here 
for  a  month  to  come.  Imagine  my  getting  a  cordial  let- 
ter from  Louis  Claude,  entreating  me  "as  an  old  Amble- 
side  boy"  to  come  and  visit  him  somewhere  out  on  the 
way  to  St.  Paul.  I  have  also  heard  from  a  Mr.  New- 
berry,  son.  of  an  old  Laleham  pupil  of  whom  you  have 
heard  mamma  speak;  he  remembers  me  as  a  little  child, 
and  wants  to  come  and  see  me.  I  have  scores  of  inter- 
esting things  of  this  kind  to  tell  you,  but  must  stop  now. 
We  dine  to-night  with  Norton  at  Cambridge;  on  Satur- 
day we  go  to  Newport.  —  Your  ever  affectionate 

M.  A. 


60] 

To  Miss  ARNOLD 
[EMERSON;  AMHERST] 

SOMERSET  CLUB,  BOSTON, 
Saturday,  December  8,  1883. 
My  dearest  Fan,  — 

I  do  not  think  I  have  yet  let  a  week  pass,  from  Sunday 
to  Sunday,  without  writing  to  you,  and  I  will  not  do  so 
now,  for  in  your  last  letter  of  20th  November  you  com- 
plained of  having  been  long  without  a  letter.  This  was 
owing  to  the  bad  passages  the  -ships  have  been  making. 
I  am  driven  hard  as  usual.  Yesterday  I  left  Flu  with 
the  Pages  here,  the  Wordsworths'  friends,  and  took  the 
eleven  o'clock  train  to  Amherst,  a  hundred  and  twenty 
miles  from  Boston,  and  the  seat  of  a  university.  In  the 
train  Jane's  letter  and  a  charming  note  from  Miss  Emer- 
son .were  brought  to  me.  Miss  Emerson  wrote  to  say 
that  she  found  not  a  word  in  the  lecture  on  her  father 
to  give  her  pain.  However,  I  am  not  going  to  read  that 
lecture  at  Concord  —  it  is  too  much  of  a  literary  criticism. 


468  MATTHEW   ARNOLD  [^t.  60 

Many  here  object  to  my  not  having  praised  Emerson  all 
round,  but  that  was  impossible.  I  have  given  him  praise 
which  in  England  will  be  thought  excessive,  probably; 
but  then  I  have  a  very,  very  deep  feeling  for  him.  One 
hears  so  much  of  him  here,  and  what  one  hears  is  so  ex- 
cellent, that  Flu  and  Lucy,  who  really  know  nothing 
about  him,  have  become  quite  attached  to  him.  Well,  I 
was  saying  that  I  went  to  Amherst  yesterday.  I  got  there 
about  three.  It  is  a  pretty  village  near  the  Connecticut 
River,  with  picturesque  lines  of  hill  in  the  landscape.  I 
found  the  President  of  the  University,  with  whom  I 
stayed,  had  dined  at  twelve,  thinking  I  should  dine  "on 
board"  the  train,  as  they  say  here.  However,  I  said  a 
lunch  of  bread  and  butter  and  tea  would  do  perfectly  for 
me,  and  then  we  went  a  walk  into  the  country,  and  at 
six  we  sat  down  to  tea — the  President  (who  is  a  widower), 
his  three  daughters,  and  a  favourite  student,  who  per- 
haps is  going  to  marry  one  of  the  daughters.  At  tea  we 
had  exquisite  rolls,  broiled  oysters,  and  preserved  peaches 
— nothing  else — and  iced  water  or  tea  to  wash  it  down. 
For  once,  this  suits  me  perfectly  well.  I  had  a  great  din- 
ner with  Phillips  Brooks — venison  and  champagne — the 
day  before.  Then  we  walked  up  to  the  chapel  where  the 
lecture  was.  We  had  650  people,  the  place  quite  full,  and 
I  spoke  well.  Then  we  walked  back,  and  had  a  supper  of 
apples  and  pears  (excellent),  sponge  cakes  and  chocolate. 
I  went  to  bed  soon  after  ten,  for  at  half-past  five  I  had 
to  get  up  to  catch  a  train  at  a  quarter  to  seven.  The 
daughters  like  early  rising,  and  all  breakfasted  with  me. 
A  porridge  made  of  split  oat  groats,  which  I  am  begin- 
ning to  like  (one  takes  it  with  cream),  a  roll,  and  a  cup 
of  tea  did  for  me  very  well.  There  was  an  immense  beef 
steak,  but  that  was  too  much  for  me  so  early.  Since  I 
got  here  I  have  been  shaved,  had  my  letters,  seen  my 
agents,  and  am  now  going  to  the  Pages  to  pick  up  Flu. 
We  go  down  to  Haverhill  for  Sunday — an  exquisite  place, 
belonging  to  a  man  called  Sanders,  who  has  made  a  great 
fortune  by  the  telephone.  I  had  been  there  before,  and 
they  wanted  me  to  bring  Flu.  She  will  be  very  comforta- 
ble, and  they  will  drive  us  after  church  to-morrow  to  see 
wfiat  Washington  pronounced  the  most  beautiful  view  in. 
New  England.  Your  ever  affectionate 

M.  A. 


|>Et.  46]       THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 

1825-1895 
To  JOHN  TYNDALL 

[A  VISIT  TO  VEStlVIUS] 

HOTEL  DE  GRANDE  BRETAGNE,  NAPLES, 

March  31,  1872. 
My  dear  Tyndall, — 

Your  very  welcome  letter  did  not  reach  me  until  the 
18th  of  March,  when  I  returned  to  Cairo  from  my  ex- 
pedition to  Assouan.  Like  Johnny  Gilpin,  I  "little 
thought,  when  I  set  out,  of  running  such  a  rig" ;  but 
while  at  Cairo  I  fell  in  with  Ossory  of  the  Athenaeum, 
and  a  very  pleasant  fellow,  Charles  Ellis,  who  had  taken 
a  dahabieh,  and  were  about  to  start  up  the  Nile.  They 
invited  me  to  take  possession  of  a  vacant  third  cabin,  and 
I  accepted  their  hospitality,  with  the  intention  of  going 
as  far  as  Thebes  and  returning  on  my  own  hook.  But 
when  we  got  to  Thebes  I  found  there  was  no  getting  away 
again  without  much  more  exposure  and  fatigue  than  I 
felt  justified  in  facing  just  then,  and  as  my  friends  showed 
no  disposition  to  be  rid  of  me,  I  stuck  to  the  'boat,  and 
only  left  them  on  the  return  voyage  at  Rodu,  which  is 
the  terminus  of  the  railway,  about  150  miles  from  Cairo. 

We  had  an  unusually  quick  journey,  as  I  was  little 
more  than  a  month  away  from  Cairo,  and  as  my  com- 
panions made  themselves  very  agreeable,  it  was  very 
pleasant.  I  was  not  particularly  well  at  first,  but  by  de- 
grees the  utter  rest  of  this  "always  afternoon"  sort  of  life 
did  its  work,  and  I  am  as  well  and  vigorous  now  as  ever 
I  was  in  my  life.  .  .  . 

Egypt  interested  me  profoundly,  but  I  must  reserve  the 
tale  of  all  I  did  and  saw  there  for  word  of  mouth.  From 
Alexandria  I  went  to  Messina,  and  thence  made  an  ex- 
cursion along  the  lovely  Sicilian  coast  to  Catania  and 
Etna.  The  old  giant  was  half  covered  with  snow,  and 
this  fact,  which  would  have  tempted  you  to  go  to  the  top, 
stopped  me.  But  I  went  to  the  Val  del  Bove,  whence  all 
the  great  lava  streams  have  flowed  for  the  last  two  cen- 

469  ' 


470  THOMAS    HENRY    HUXLEY        [^Et.46 

turies,  and  feasted  my  eyes  with  its  rugged  grandeur. 
From  Messina  I  came  on  here,  and  had  the  great  good 
fortune  to  find  Vesuvius  in  eruption.  Before  this  fact 
the  vision  of  good  Bence  Jones  forbidding  much  exertion 
vanished  into  thin  air,  and  on  Thursday  up  I  went  in 
company  with  Eay  Lankester  and  my  friend  Dohrn's 
father,  Dohrn  himself  being  unluckily  away.  We  had  a 
glorious  day,  and  did  not  descend  till  late  at  night.  The 
great  crater  was  not  very  active,  and  contented  itself  with 
throwing  out  great  clouds  of  steam  and  volleys  of  red- 
hot  stones  now  and  then.  These  were  thrown  towards 
the  south-west  side  of  the  cone,  so  that  it  was  practicable 
to  walk  all  round  the  northern  and  eastern  lip,  and  look 
down  into  the  Hell  Gate.  I  wished  you  were  there  to 
enjoy  the  sight  as  much  as  I  did.  No  lava  was  issuing 
from  the  great  crater,  but  on  the  north  side  of  this,  a 
little  way  below  the  top,  an  independent  cone  had  estab- 
lished itself  as  the  most  charming  little  pocket-volcano 
imaginable.  It  could  not  have  been  more  than  100  feet 
high,  and  at  the  top  was  a  crater  not  more  than  six  or 
seven  feet  across.  Out  of  this,  with  a  noise  exactly  re- 
sembling a  blast  furnace  and  a  slowly-working  high  pres- 
sure steam  engine  combined,  issued  a  violent  torrent  of 
steam  and  fragments  of  semi-fluid  lava  as  big  as  one's 
fist,  and  sometimes  bigger.  These  shot  up  sometimes  as 
much  as  100  feet,  and  then  fell  down  on  the  sides  of  the 
little  crater,  which  could  be  approached  within  fifty  feet 
without  any  danger.  As  darkness  set  in,  the  spectacle 
was  most  strange.  The  fiery  stream  found  a  lurid  reflec- 
tion in  the  slowly-drifting  steam  cloud,  which  overhung 
it,  while  the  red-hot  stones  which  shot  through  the  cloud 
shone  strangely  beside  the  quiet  stars  in  a  moonless 
sky.  .  .  . 

Courage,  my  friend,  behold  land !  I  know  you  love  my 
handwriting.  I  am  off  to  Rome  to-day,  and  this  day- 
week,  if  all  goes  well,  I  shall  be  under  my  own  roof-tree 
again.  In  fact  I  hope  to  reach  London  on  Saturday  even- 
ing. It  will  be  jolly  to  see  your  face  again. — Ever  yours 
faithfully, 

T.  H.  HUXLEY. 


[>Et.  34]  FITZ-JAMES   O'BKIEN 

1828-1862 

To  A  FRIEND 

[FROM  A  SOLDIER'S  DEATH-BED] 

[April,  1862] 

...  I  gave  up  the  ghost  and  told  him  to  go  ahead. 
There  were  about  twelve  surgeons  to  witness  the  opera- 
tion. All  my  shoulder  bone  and  a  portion  of  my  upper 
arm  have  been  taken  away.  I  nearly  died.  My  breath 
ceased,  heart  ceased  to  beat,  pulse  stopped.  However,  I 
got  through.  I  am  not  yet  out  of  danger  from  the  opera- 
tion, but  a  worse  disease  has  set  in.  I  have  got  tetanus, 
or  lock-jaw.  There  is  a  chance  of  my  getting  out  of  it, 
that's  all.  In  case  I  don't,  good-by  old  fellow,  with  all 
my  love!  I  don't  want  to  make  any  legal  document,  but 
I  desire  that  you  and  Frank  Wood  should  be  my  literary 
executors,  because  after  I'm  dead  I  may  turn  out  a  bigger 
man  than  when  living.  I'd  write  more  if  I  could,  but  I'm 
very  weak.  Write  to  me.  I  may  be  alive.  Also  get  Wood 
to  write. 


I>Et.  41]     DANTE  GABEIEL  KOSSETTI 

1828-1882 

To  WILLIAM  KOSSETTI 
["RECOVERING  MY  LOST  MSS."] 

13  October,  1869. 
My  dear  William, — 

I  wished  last  night  to  speak  to  you  on  a  subject  which 
however  I  find  it  necessary  to  put  in  writing.  I  am  very 
anxious  to  know  your  view  of  it,  and  to  remind  you  be- 
forehand that  no  mistrust  or  unbrotherly  feeling  could 
possibly  have  caused  my  silence  till  now. 

Various  friends  have  long  hinted  from  time  to  time  at 
the  possibility  of  recovering  my  lost  MSS.,  and  when  I 
was  in  Scotland  last  year  Scott  particularly  referred  to 
it.  Some  months  ago  Howell  of  his  own  accord  entered 
on  the  matter,  and  offered  to  take  all  the  execution  of  it 
on  himself.  This  for  some  time  I  still  hung  back  from 

471 


472  DANTE    GABKIEL    EOSSETTI       [^Et.44 

accepting;  but  eventually  I  yielded,  and  the  thing  was 
done,  after  some  obstacles,  on  Wednesday  or  Thursday 
last,  I  forget  which.  An  order  had  first  to  be  obtained 
from  the  Home  Secretary,  who  strangely  enough  is  an 
old  and  rather  intimate  acquaintance  of  my  own — H.  A. 
Bruce.  .  .  .  All  in  the  coffin  was  found  quite  perfect; 
but  the  book,  though  not  in  any  way  destroyed,  is  soaked 
through  and  through,  and  had  to  be  still  further  saturated 
with  disinfectants.  It  is  now  in  the  hands  of  the  medi- 
cal man  who  was  associated  with  Howell  in  the  disinter- 
ment,  and  who  is  carefully  drying  it  leaf  by  leaf.  There 
seems  reason  to  fear  that  some  minor  portion  is  obliter- 
ated, but  I  most  hope  this  may  not  prove  to  be  the  most 
important  part.  I  shall  not,  I  believe,  be  able  to  see  it 
for  at  least  a  week  yet. 

I  trust  you  will  not — but  I  know  you  cannot — think 
that  I  showed  any  want  of  confidence  in  not  breaking 
this  painful  matter  to  you  before  its  issue.  It  was  a 
service  I  could  not  ask  you  to  perform  for  me,  nor  do  I 
know  any  one  except  Howell  who  could  well  have  been* 
entrusted  with  such  a  trying  task.  It  was  necessary,  as 
we  found,  that  a  lawyer  should  be  employed  in  the  mat- 
ter, to  speak  to  the  real  nature  of  the  MSS.,  as  difficulties 
were  raised  to  the  last  by  the  Cemetery  Authorities  as  to 
their  possibly  being  papers  the  removal  of  which  involved 
a  fraud.  ... 

[Mt.  44] 

To  HIS  MOTHER 
[DISCIPLINING  A  DOG] 

KELMSCOTT,  LECHLADE, 

27  March,  1873. 
My  dearest  Mother, — 

I  hear  with  great  anxiety  from  Maria  that  you  have 
been  suffering  from  an  attack  of  influenza,  and  that  you 
are  still  in  bed.  I  hope  Maria  will  continue  to  let  me 
know  regularly  how  you  are.  I  trust,  however,  that  the 
next  news  may  be  decidedly  favourable.  .  .  . 

I  am  meaning  to  dedicate  to  you  the  new  edition  of 
my  Italian  Poets.  The  first  was  dedicated  to  poor  Lizzy, 
and  I  had  some  thought  of  retaining  the  dedication  with 


Mt.  44]      DANTE    GABRIEL   ROSSETTI  473 

date;   but,   this   seeming  perhaps   rather   forced,   I   shall 
substitute  your  dear  name  in  the  second  edition. 
Hoping  to  hear  a  better  account  soon, 
I  am  ever 

Your  most  loving  Son, 
D.  GABRIEL  R. 

P.S. — I  must  really  tell  you  about  Dizzy,  George's  dog. 
Some  evenings  back  he  was  lying  by  the  fire  in  my  studio, 
when  George,  who  was  going  to  bed,  roused  him  to  ac- 
company him,  as  he  generally  does.  Dizzy,  however,  was 
unwilling  to  quit  the  fire,  and  at  last  got  so  nasty  and 
wicked  that  he  bit  George  in  the  thumb.  He  was  then 
locked  up  for  the  night  in  the  coldest  place  that  could 
be  found. 

In  the  morning  he  trotted  into  the  breakfast-room  as 
usual,  but  was  received  with  shouts  of  obloquy,  upon 
which  he  turned  tail  at  once  and  fled.  At  dinner  the 
same  day  he  reappeared;  whereupon  we  tied  him  to  the 
leg  of  the  piano,  and  had  in  another  dog  who  is  here, 
called  Turvy.  We  set  a  plate  just  out  of  Dizzy's  reach, 
and  fed  Turvy  with  three  successive  helps  of  beef  and 
macaroni,  between  each  of  which  Dizzy's  feelings  found 
vent  in  "voci  alte  e  fioche."  After  this  Turvy  was  much 
caressed,  and  every  now  and  then  left  us,  to  walk 
leisurely  round  Dizzy  and  survey  him  as  an  accessory  de- 
serving of  passing  notice.  Dizzy  has  been  a  convict  ever 
since,  and  knows  it.  This  morning,  on  entering  the  break- 
fast-room, I  found  him  rolled  up  on  the  mat  before  the 
fire,  and,  being  occupied  with  other  things,  for  the  mo- 
ment forgot  his  position.  On  my  appearance,  he  raised 
his  head  in  doubt,  but,  when  I  sat  down  and  said  noth- 
ing, he  let  his  head  drop  again  on  the  mat  with  an  air 
of  luxurious  relief.  This'  served  as  a  reminder,  and  I 
shrieked,  "What,  not  Dizzy!"  in  such  tones  that  he  arose 
in  a  moment  and  fled  to  the  shades  with  an  expression 
of  anguish  which  cannot  be  described.  I  think  the  ban 
will  soon  have  to  be  taken  off  him  now.  At  present  the 
only  relaxation  is  that  he  is  allowed  to  accompany  us  in 
our  walks,  but  without  recognition  from  us.  One  only 
has  to  show  one's  thumb  to  him,  and  his  sins  fall  back  on 
his  head  in  a  moment,  and  drive  him  into  solitude. 


.  34]  GEOKGE   MEREDITH 

1828-1909 

To  WILLIAM  HARDMAN 
["TUCK"  DISAPPOINTS] 

May  2,  1862. 
Such  Weather. 
And  at  Copsham  no  Tuck! 

Anathema! 
Spoken  by  the  poet  on  receiving 

Tuck's 

Card:  May  2nd,  1862. 

"May  his  company  find  him  utterly  dull,  and  he  his 
company ! 

"May  he  hear  good  things  and  not  comprehend  them ! 
"May  he  long  in  anguish  to  laugh,  and  when  the  laugh 
comes,  "may  he  forget  the  cause  thereof,  and  go  seeking 
for  it,  for  the  remainder  of  his  years,  with  the  aspect  of 
such  a  seeker! 

"May  Demitroia  exclaim,  'I  am  of  a  different  opinion 
from  William'!!!" 

(Climax  attained.) 
(Close   of   Anathema.) 

Went  to  Exhibition  on  opening  Day  with  Borthwick. 
Crush.  Saw  everything.  .  .  .  Dined  with  Morison  and 
Hicks,  and  drank  Hocks,  etc.  Anticipated  seeing  you, 
cock-certain,  to-morrow.  Will  never  believe  your  cock- 
certain  again ! — Book*  to  be  delivered  this  evening  or  to- 
morrow. Has  subscribed  wonderfully  well.  In  spite  of 
all. — Your  loving 

GEORGE  M. 

*  Poems  and  Ballads. 


474 


Mt.  34  GEOKGE    MEREDITH  475 

{Mi.  34] 

To  WILLIAM  HARDMAN 
["ASPARAGUS  is  RIPE"] 

COPSHAM,  May  5,  1862. 
Madrigal 
"Since  Tuck  is  faithless  found" 

Since  Tuck  is  faithless  found,  no  more 
I'll  trust  to  man  or  maid; 
I'll  sit  me  down,  a  hermit  hoar, 
Alone  in  Copsham  shade. 

The  sight  of  all  I  shun; 
Far-spying  from  the  mound; 
I'll  be  at  home  no  more, 

Since  Tuck, 

Since  Tu-a  tu-a  tu-a 

Tuia  Tuck, 
Since  Tuck  is  faithless  found. 

Oh!  what  a  glorious  day.  I  have  done  lots  of  Emilia,* 
and  am  now  off  to  Ripley,  or  St.  Demitroia  hill,  or  Tuck's 
Height,  carolling.  I  snap  my  fingers  at  you.  And  yet, 
dear  Tuck,  what  would  I  give  to  have  you  here.  The 
gorse  is  all  ablaze,  the  meadows  are  glorious — green,  hum- 
ming all  day.  Nightingales  throng.  Heaven,  blessed 
blue  amorous  Heaven  is  hard  at  work  upon  our  fair,  wan- 
ton, darling  old  naughty  Mother  Earth. 

Come,  dear  Tuck,  and  quickly,  or*  I  must  love  a  woman, 
and  be  ruined.  Answer  me,  grievous  man! 

In  thine  ear! — Asparagus  is  ripe  at  Ripley.  In  haste. 
— Your  constantly  loving  friend,  GEORGE  M. 

*  Emilia  in  England,  now  called  Sandra  Belloni. 


476  GEORGE   MEREDITH  [^Et.36 

.  36] 


To  THE  REV.  AUGUSTUS  JESSOPP 
["LITTLE  WRITERS  SHOULD  BE  REALISTIC"] 

Sept.  20,  1864. 
My  dear  Jessopp,  — 

As  to  the  Poems  :  I  don't  think  the  age  prosaic  for  not 
buying  them.  A  man  who  hopes  to  be  popular,  must 
think  from  the  mass,  and  as  the  heart  of  the  mass.  If  he 
follows  out  vagaries  of  his  own  brain,  he  cannot  hope  for 
general  esteem;  and  he  does  smaller  work.  "Modern 
Love"  as  a  dissection  of  the  sentimental  passion  of  these 
days,  could  only  be  apprehended  by  the  few  who  would 
read  it  many  times.  I  have  not  looked  for  it  to  succeed. 
Why  did  I  write  it  ?-^-Who  can  account  for  pressure  ?  .  .  . 

Between  realism  and  idealism  there  is  no  natural  con- 
flict. This  completes  that.  Realism  is  the  basis  of  good 
composition:  it  implies  study,  observation,  artistic  power, 
and  (in  those  who  can  do  more)  humility.  Little  writers 
should  be  realistic.  They  would  then  at  least  do  solid 
work.  They  afflict  the  world  because  they  will  attempt 
that  it  is  given  to  none  but  noble  workmen  to  achieve.  A 
great  genius  must  necessarily  employ  ideal  means,  for  a 
vast  conception  cannot  be  placed  bodily  before  the  eye, 
and  remains  to  be  suggested.  Idealism  is  as  an  atmos- 
phere whose  effects  of  grandeur  are  wrought  out  through 
a  series  of  illusions,  that  are  illusions  to  the  sense  within 
us  only  when  divorced  from  the  groundwork  of  the  real. 
Need  there  be  exclusion,  the  one  of  the  other  ?  The  artist 
is  incomplete  who  does  this.  Men  to  whom  I  bow  my 
head  (Shakespeare,  Goethe;  and  in  their  way,  Moliere, 
Cervantes)  are  Realists  au  fond.  But  they  have  the  broad 
arms  of  Idealism  at  command.  They  give  us  Earth;  but 
it  is  earth  with  an  atmosphere.  One  may  find  as  much 
amusement  in  a  Kaleidoscope  as  in  a  merely  idealistic 
writer:  and,  just  as  sound  prose  is  of  more  worth  than 
pretentious  poetry,  I  hold  the  man  who  gives  a  plain  wall 
of  fact  higher  in  esteem  than  one  who  is  constantly  shuf- 
fling the  clouds  and  dealing  with  airy,  delicate  sentimen- 
talities, headless  and  tailless  imaginings,  despising  our 
good,  plain  strength. 

Does  not  all  science  (the  mammoth  balloon,  to  wit)  tell 


Mt.  36]  GEOKGE   MEKEDITH  477 

us  that  when  we  forsake  earth,  we  reach  up  to  a  frosty, 
inimical  Inane?  For  my  part  I  love  and  cling  to  earth, 
as  the  one  piece  of  God's  handiwork  which  we  possess.  I 
admit  that  we  can  refashion;  but  of  earth  must  be  the 
material. — Yours  faithful, 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

[-fflt.  36] 

To  Miss  J H 

[REJECTING  A  NOVEL] 

193  PICCADILLY,  LONDON,  W.,  Nov.  22,  1864. 
The  chief  fault  in  your  stories  is  the  redundancy  of 
words  which  overlays  them;  and  the  chief  hope  visible 
in  them  is  the  copious  youthful  feeling  running  through- 
out. Your  characters  do  not  speak  the  language  of  na- 
ture, and  this  is  specially  to  be  charged  against  them 
when  they  are  under  strong  excitement  and  should  most 
do  so.  Nor  are  the  characters  very  originally  conceived, 
though  there  is  good  matter  in  the  Old  Welshman  C. 
Rees.  Your  defect  at  present  lies  in  your  raw  feeling. 
Time  will  cure  this,  if  you  will  get  the  habit  of  looking 
resolutely  at  the  thing  you  would  pourtray,  instead  of 
exclaiming  about  it  and  repeating  yourself  without  as- 
sisting the  reader  on  in  any  degree.  We*  certainly  think 
that  you  are  a  hopeful  writer,  and  possibly  we  have  been 
enough  outspoken  to  encourage  you  to  believe  us  sincere 
in  saying  so. 

To  Miss  J H— 

["LEARX  TO  DESTROY  REMORSELESSLY"] 

193  PICCADILLY,  LONDON,  W. 
Madam, — 

You  speak  of  the  exclamatory  style  as  being,  you  think, 
essentially  and  naturally  feminine.  If  you  will  look,  at 
the  works  of  the  writer  of  "Adam  Bede,"  you  will  see 
that  she,  the  greatest  of  female  writers,  manifests  noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  It  is  simply  a  quality  of  youth,  and  you 
by  undertaking  to  study  will  soon  tame  your  style.  Inter* 

*  Meredith  was  for  several  years  literary  adviser  to  Chapman  and  Hall. 


478  GEORGE   MEKEDITH  [^Et.44 

jections  are  commonly  a  sign  of  raw  thought,  and  of 
vagrant  emotion: — a  literary  hysteria  to  which  women 
may  be  more  subject  than  men;  but  they  can  talk  in  an- 
other tongue,  let  us  hope.  We  are  anxious  that  you 
should  not  be  chagrined  by  any  remarks  that  we  have 
made.  There  is  real  promise  in  your  work:  but  remem- 
ber that  the  best  fiction  is  fruit  of  a  well-trained  mind. 
If  hard  study  should  kill  your  creative  effort,  it  will  be 
no  loss  to  the  world  or  to  you.  And  if,  on  the  contrary 
the  genius  you  possess  should  survive  the  process  of  men- 
tal labour,  it  will  be  enriched  and  worthy  of  a  good  rank. 
But  do  not  be  discouraged  by  what  we  say;  and  do  not 
listen  to  the  encomiums  of  friends.  Read  the  English  of 
the  Essayists;  read  de  Stendhal  (Henri  Beyle)  in  French; 
Heinrich  Zschokke  in  German  (minor  tales).  Learn  to 
destroy  your  literary  offspring  remorselessly  until  you 
produce  one  that  satisfies  your  artistic  feeling. 


[JEt.  44] 

To  ARTHUR  G.  MEREDITH 
["LET  NOTHING  FLOUT  YOUR  SENSE  OF  A  SUPREME  BEING"] 

Box  HILL,  DORKING,  SURREY, 

ENGLAND,  April  25,  1872. 
My  dear  Arthur,— 

.  .  .  Strong  friendships  and  intercommunications  with 
foreigners  will  refresh  your  life  in  this  island,  and  the 
Germans  are  solid.  Stick  to  a  people  not  at  the  mercy 
of  their  impulses,  and  besides  a  people  with  so  fine  a 
literature  must  be  worthy  of  love. — Captain  Maxse  wrote 
to  me  the  other  day  about  an  examination  in  the  Foreign 
Office  for  the  post  of  Chinese  interpreter — for  you:  if 
successful  to  go  out  to  China  with  a  salary  of  £200  per 
annum  and  learn  the  Chinese  tongue  of  li-ro  and  fo-ki. 
I  declined  it:  I  hope  I  was  right.  I  felt  sure  that  it 
would  be  repugnant  to  you  to  spend  your  life  in  China, 
where  the  climate  is  hard,  society  horrid,  life  scarcely  (to 
my  thought)  endurable.  Perhaps  you  might  have  chosen 
Japan.  But  it  would  have  been  for  very  many  years 
perpetual  banishment.  Let  me  hear  what  you  think  of 
it. — Study  Cicero  carefully.  He  is  a  fine  moralist,  a 


^Et.  44]  GEORGE   MEREDITH  479 

friend  of  scholars,  a  splendid  trainer  for  a  public  life  of 
any  serious  and  exalted  ambition. — What  you  say  of  our 
religion  is  what  thoughtful  men  feel:  and  that  you  at 
the  same  time  can  recognise  its  moral  value,  is  matter  of 
rejoicing  to  me.  The  Christian  teaching  is  sound  and 
good:  the  ecclesiastical  dogma  is  an  instance  of  the  pov- 
erty of  humanity's  mind  hitherto,  and  has  often  in  its 
hideous  fangs  and  claws  shown  whence  we  draw  our  de- 
scent.— Don't  think  that  the  obscenities  mentioned  in  the 
Bible  do  harm  to  children.  The  Bible  is  outspoken  upon 
facts,  and  rightly.  It  is  because  the  world  is  pruriently 
and  stupidly  shamefaced  that  it  cannot  come  in  contact 
with  the  Bible  without  convulsions.  I  agree  with  the 
Frommen  that  the  book  should  be  read  out,  for  Society 
is  a  wanton  hypocrite,  and  I  would  accommodate  her  in 
nothing:  though  for  the  principle  of  Society  I  hold  that 
men  should  be  ready  to  lay  down  their  lives.  Belief  in 
the  religion  has  done  and  does  this  good  to  the  young; 
it  floats  them  through  the  perilous  sensual  period  when 
the  animal  appetites  most  need  control  and  transmuta- 
tion. If  you  have  not  the  belief,  set  yourself  to  love  vir- 
tue by  understanding  that  it  is  your  best  guide  both  as 
to  what  is  due  to  others  and  what  is  for  your  positive 
personal  good.  If  your  mind  honestly  rejects  it,  you  must 
call  on  your  mind  to  supply  its  place  from  your  own  re- 
sources. Otherwise  you  will  have  only  half  done  your 
work,  and  that  is  always  mischievous.  Pray  attend  to  my 
words  on  this  subject.  You  know  how  Socrates  loved 
Truth.  Virtue  and  Truth  are  one.  Look  for  the  truth 
in  everything,  and  follow  it,  and  you  will  then  be  living 
justly  before  God.  Let  nothing  flout  your  sense  of  a  Su- 
preme Being,  and  be  certain  that  your  understanding 
wavers  whenever  you  chance  to  doubt  that  he  leads  to 
good.  We  grow  to  good  as  surely  as  the  plant  grows  to 
the  light.  The  school  has  only  to  look  through  history 
for  a  scientific  assurance  of  it.  And  do  not  lose  the  habit 
of  praying  to  the  unseen  Divinity.  Prayer  for  worldly 
goods  is  worse  than  fruitless,  but  prayer  for  strength  of 
soul  is  that  passion  of  the  soul  which  catches  the  gift  it 
seeks* — Your  loving  father, 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 


480  GEORGE   MEREDITH  [>Et.  46 

l>Et.  46] 

To  CAPTAIN  MAXSE 
[A  PARSON-PIGEON] 

Box  HILL,  August  15,  1874. 
My  dear  Fred, — 

I  write  so  that  you  may  not  be  disappointed  of  a  letter 
at  Meyringen,  and  good  morning  to  you  on  your  way  to 
the  Bel  Alp!  I  am  finishing  a  poem,  "The  Nuptials  of 
Attila" — about  forty  pages:  Jacob  at  my  foot,  an  accus- 
tomed pigeon  on  the  window-sill,  bees  below  humming 
over  some  droppings  of  honeycomb  just  taken  from  them. 
This  is  pastoral  and  should  content  me,  yet  I  wish  I  were 
with  you,  in  sight  of  the  Alps.  Zurich  I  don't  much  care 
for,  yet  to  be  at  Zurich  would  enrapture  me. — Why  should 
you  return! — Now  I  look  at  my  pigeon  fronting  me,  I 
remark  that  he  is  amazingly  like  a  parson.  He  is  on  one 
leg,  asleep,  his  beak  in  breast,  all  his  feathers  oddly  ruf- 
fled to  swell  his  size,  and  an  eye  turned  on  me  like  the 
eye  of  Falstaff  heeling  over  with  excess  of  Sherris.  Say, 
a  Bishop. — When  I  was  staying  with  my  wife's  sister  last 
June  we  dined  one  evening  with  the  rector  of  the  place. 
He  said  to  me:  "Do  you  think  it  true  that  there  is  a  por- 
trait of  Jesus  Christ  extant?"— "Of  Nazareth?"  said  I. 
He  blinked  faintly  like  my  sleepy  pigeon.  "Certainly  of 
Nazareth."— "Oh!  no,  then,"  said  I.  "But  it  is  affirmed 
that  there  is  an  authentic  portrait  of  the  Virgin  his 
Mother."  "Could  one  trust  it?"  he  asked  me  with  a  sup- 
plication in  the  tone.  "Decidedly  not,"  said  I.  He  was 
(to  make  use  of  one  of  their  distinctions)  High  Church. 
One  may  be  high  and  not  see  far.  And  now  good-night, 
Fred.  Write  from  Bel  Alp. — Where  you  will  also  be  high 
and  not  see  so  far  as  me,  I  dare  say. — Your  envious 

GEORGE  M. 


.£t.50]  GEOKGE   MEREDITH  481 

[Mt.  50] 

To  R.  L.  STEVENSON 
[PRAISE  AND  BLAME;  HENLEY] 

Box  HILL,  DORKING,  June  4,  1878. 
My  dear  Stevenson, — 

I  had  not  time  to  write  to  you  immediately  after  read- 
ing the  book,*  but  my  impressions  are  fresh.  My  wife 
has  gained  possession  of  it  at  last,  so  I  should  have  to 
run  down  to  the  house  to  quote  correctly.  She  fell  on 
the  book,  I  snatched  it,  she  did  the  same,  but  I  regaining 
it,  cut  the  pages,  constituting  an  act  of  ownership.  I 
leave  this  to  her  invariably,  so  she  was  impressed  and 
abandoned  the  conflict.  I  have  been  fully  pleased.  The 
writing  is  of  the  rare  kind  which  is  naturally  simple  yet 
picked  and  choice.  It  is  literature.  The  eye  on  land  and 
people  embraces  both,  and  does  not  take  them  up  in  bits. 
I  have  returned  to  the  reading  and  shall  again.  The  re- 
flections wisely  tickle,  they  are  in  the  right  good  tone  of 
philosophy  interwrought  with  humour. 

My  protest  is  against  the  Preface  and  the  final  page. 
The  Preface  is  keenly  in  Osric's  vein — "everything  you 
will,  dear  worthy  public,  but  we  are  exceeding  modest 
and  doubt  an  you  will  read  us,  though  exquisitely  silken- 
calved  we  are,  and  could  say  a  word  of  ourselves,  yet  on 
seeing  our  book,  were  we  amazed  at  our  littleness,  indeed 
and  truly,  my  lord  Public!"  As  for  the  closing  page,  it 
is  rank  recreancy.  "Yes,  Mr.  Barlow,"  said  Tommy,  "I 
have  travelled  abroad,  under  various  mishaps,  to  learn  in 
the  end  that  the  rarest  adventures  are  those  one  does  not 
go  forth  to  seek."  "My  very  words  to  him,"  said  Mr. 
Barlow  to  himself,  at  the  same  time  presenting  Tommy 
with  a  guinea  piece. — This  last  page  is  quite  out  of  tone 
with  the  spirit  of  the  book. 

I  remember  [in]  "On  the  Oise,"  you  speak  of  the  river 
hurrying  on,  "never  pausing  to  take  breath."  This,  and  a 
touch  of  excess  in  dealing  with  the  reeds,  whom  you  de- 
prive .of  their  beauty  by  overinforming  them  with  your 
sensations,  I  feel  painfully  to  be  levelled  at  the  Saxon 
head.  It  is  in  the  style  of  Dickens. 

*  An   Inland    Voyage. 


482  GEOEGE   MEKEDITH  [JEt.  54 

But  see  what  an  impression  I  have  of  you  when  these 
are  the  sole  blots  I  discover  by  my  lively  sensations  in  the 
perusal. 

Should  you  be  in  communication  with  Mr.  Henley,  I 
beg  you  will  convey  to  him  my  sense  of  the  honour  he 
does  me  by  giving  so  much  attention  to  my  work.  I,  who 
have  worked  for  many  years  not  supposing  that  any  one 
paid  much  heed  to  me,  find  it  extraordinary.  His  praise 
is  high  indeed,  but  happily  he  fetches  me  a  good  lusty 
clout  o'  the  head  now  and  again,  by  which  I  am  sur- 
prisingly well  braced  and  my  balance  is  restored.  Other- 
wise praise  like  that  might  operate  as  the  strong  waters 
do  upon  the  lonely  savage  unused  to  such  a  rapture. 

You  should  see  the  foliage  of  our  valley.  Come  you 
to  London  on  your  way  to  the  Continent,  you  must  give 
us  a  visit.  Whither  do  you  go?  How  is  the  mood  for 
work  with  you?  In  August  I  believe  I  am  bound  for 
Dauphine,  where  a  French  brother-in-law  of  my  wife,  a 
militaire,  has  a  pied  a  terre  on  the  borders  of  Savoy.  I 
am  rather  more  in  the  mood  for  South  Tyrol,  but  the  in- 
vitation attracts,  and  Dauphine  has  heights  enough.  My 
"Egoist"  is  on  the  way  to  a  conclusion.  Of  pot-boilers 
let  none  speak.  Jove  hangs  them  upon  necks  that  could 
soar  above  his  heights  but  for  the  accursed  weight. 

Adieu.  I  trust  you  are  well.  Look  to  health.  Kun  to 
no  excess  in  writing  or  in  anything.  I  hope  you  will  feel 
that  we  expect  much  of  you.  I  beg  you  to  remember  me 
to  your  father  and  mother.  —  Yours  very  faithfully, 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 


.  54] 

To  M.  ANDRE  RAFFALOVICH 
[LESLIE  STEPHEN  AND  "THE  SUNDAY  TRAMPS"] 

Box  HILL,  DORKING,  April  8,  1882. 
My  dear  Sir,  — 

I  have  been  unable  to  write  much.  All  my  correspond- 
ence lies  in  abeyance.  A  friend  would  persuade  me  to  go 
with  him  to  Evian  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva  in  August,  and 
I  may  try  the  place  for  a  few  weeks,  if  I  can  put  a  finish 
to  my  present  work.  It  is  doubtful. 

Your  article  on  Louis  Stevenson  is  a  fair  summary  of 


^Et.54]  GEORGE    MEREDITH  483 

him.  Leslie  Stephen  comes  down  to  me  three  or  four 
times  in  the  year,  with  other  friends  forming  a  body  call- 
ing themselves  "The  Sunday  Tramps,"  who  escape  from 
the  dreary  London  Sabbath  once  a  fortnight  and  take  a 
walk  of  between  20  and  30  miles.  When  I  was  in  health 
I  was  of  the  pedestrian  party.  Now  I  have  to  meet  them 
on  the  hills  half  way  from  home,  or  less.  They  dine  with 
me,  and  start  for  London  at  10  P.M.  They  are  men  of 
distinction  in  science  or  Literature;  tramping  with  them 
one  has  the  world  under  review,  as  well  as  pretty  scenery. 
Leslie  is  acknowledged  captain  of  the  band.  I  have  a 
very  warm  regard  for  him.  If  you  remember  Vernon 
Whitford  of  the  "Egoist,"  it  is  a  sketch  of  L.  Stephen, 
but  merely  a  sketch,  not  doing  him  full  justice,  though 
the  strokes  within  and  without  are  correct. — I  have  just 
put  down  "Numa  Roumestan,"  an  admirable  piece  of 
writing.  The  pictures  of  Provence,  and  the  men  and 
women  of  Southern  blood,  are  astonishingly  vivid.  I  like 
no  other  of  Daudet's  novels.  His  "Contes  Choisis"  are 
exquisite.  He  has  real  poetical  quality. — Now  I  must 
come  to  aja  end. 

Believe  me,  your  most  faithful 
GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

[Mt.  54] 

To  M.  ANDRE  RAFFALOVICH 

[CARLYLE  AND  HIS  WIFE;  STEVENSON] 

Box  HILL,  DORKING, 

May  23,  1882. 
My  dear  Sir, — 

Your  article  on  Th.  Carlyle's  "Reminiscences"  was 
prompted,  I  think,  rather  by  enthusiasm  for  the  lady  who 
stands  close  and  in  contrast  with  him,  than  by  an  ac- 
curate knowledge  of  his  works,  nature,  and  teaching. 
Our  people  over  here  have  been  equally  unjust,  with  less 
excuse.  You  speak  of  vanity,  as  a  charge  against  him. 
He  has  little,  though  he  certainly  does  not  err  on  the  side 
of  modesty: — he  knew  his  powers.  The  harsh  judgment 
he  passed  on  the  greater  number  of  his  contemporaries 
came  from  a  very  accurate  perception  of  them,  as  they 
were  perused  by  the  intense  light  of  the  man's  personal 


484  GEOKGE   MEKEDITH  [^Et.  54 

sincereness.  He  was  one  who  stood  constantly  in  the 
presence  of  those  "Eternal  verities"  of  which  he  speaks. 
For  the  shallow  men  of  mere  literary  aptitude  he  had 
perforce  contempt.  The  spirit  of  the  prophet  was  in  him. 
• — Between  him  and  his  wife  the  case  is  quite  simple. 
She  was  a  woman  of  peculiar  conversational  sprightli- 
ness,  and  such  a  woman  longs  for  society.  To  him,  bear- 
ing that  fire  of  sincereness,  as  I  have  said,  society  was 
unendurable.  All  coming  near  him,  except  those  who 
could  bear  the  trial,  were  scorched,  and  he  was  as  much 
hurt  as  they  by  the  action  rousing  the  flames  in  him. 
Moreover,  like  all  truthful  souls,  he  was  an  artist  in  his 
work.  The  efforts  after  verification  of  matters  of  fact, 
and  to  present  things  distinctly  in  language,  were  in- 
cessant ;  they  cost  him  his  health,  swallowed  up  his  leisure. 
Such  a  man  could  hardly  be  an  agreeable  husband  for  a 
woman  of  the  liveliest  vivacity.  But  that  is  not  a  reason 
for  your  passing  condemnation  on  him.  Study  well  his 
writings.  I  knew  them  both.  She  did  me  the  honour  to 
read  my  books,  and  make  him  listen  to  extracts,  and  he 
was  good  enough  to  repeat  that  "the  writer  thereof  was 
no  fool" — high  praise  from  him.  They  snapped  at  one 
another,  and  yet  the  basis  of  affection  was  mutually  firm. 
She  admired,  he  respected,  and  each  knew  the  other  to 
be  honest.  Only  she  needed  for  her  mate  one  who  was 
more  a  citizen  of  the  world,  and  a  woman  of  the  placid 
disposition  of  Milton's  Eve,  framed  by  her  master  to  be 
an  honest  labourer's  cook  and  housekeeper,  with  a  nerv- 
ous system  resembling  a  dumpling,  would  have  been 
enough  for  him. — He  was  the  greatest  of  the  Britons  of 
his  time — and  after  the  British  fashion  of  not  coming 
near  perfection ;  Titanic,  not  Olympian :  a  heaver  of 
rocks,  not  a  shaper.  But  if  he  did  no  perfect  work,  he 
had  lightning's  power  to  strike  out  marvellous  pictures 
and  reach  to  the  inmost  of  men  with  a  phrase. 

We  had  Mr.  Louis  Stevenson  in  our  Valley,  staying 
with  his  wife  and  father  and  mother  at  the  inn.  He 
dined  with  me  several  evenings,  and  talked  of  you.  We 
speculated  on  the  impression  produced  by  his  costume  de 
Boheme,  which  he  seems  to  have  adopted  for  good — an 
innocent  eccentricity  at  any  rate. 

My  thanks  are  due  to  you  for  your  articles  on  my  works. 


<£t.60]  GEORGE    MEREDITH  485 

Pardon  me  if  I  do  not  correspond  regularly.  I  am 
compelled  to  shun  writing  as  much  as  possible,  and 
scarcely  hope  to  be  of  much  in  the  world  until  I  have 
gone  through  some  course  of  water-cure  for  unstrung 
nerves.  They  tell  me  that  good  douches  are  to  be  had 
at  Evian,  and  I  rather  decide  to  go  thither  at  the  end  of 
July,  thence  perhaps  to  the  Engadine  or  the  South  Tyrol 
Dolomites,  if  my  ancient  talent  for  walking  should  be 
restored.  You,  who  have  youth,  take  my  warning  not  to 
undermine  it  with  the  pick  and  blasting  powder  of  pen 
and  ink. — I  am,  with  warmest  greetings  to  you,  your 
most  faithful  and  obliged, 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

[JEt.  60] 

To  W.  E.  HENLEY  * 
["IN  HOSPITAL"] 

Box  HILL,  DORKING,  June  1,  1888. 
Dear  Mr.  Henley, — 

The  rude  realism  of  your  verses  "In  Hospital"  has 
braced  me.  And  with  this  breath  of  the  darkness  of  life 
you  give  a  note — 

'"Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me" — 

which  has  a  manful  ring  to  clear  and  lift  us,  whatever 
the  oppression  that  may  have  been  caused.  No  realism 
frightens  me.  At  its  worst,  I  take  it  as  a  correction  of 
the  flimsy,  to  which  our  literature  has  a  constant  tendency 
to  recur.  Even  the  lowest  appears  to  me  more  instructive 
than  Byronics. — But  when,  out  of  hospital,  you  cry  out 
in  ecstasy  of  the  "smell  of  the  mud  in  the  nostrils,"  you 
strike  profoundly — beyond  the  critical  senses. 

I  thank  you  for  the  volume.  It  has  the  tone  of  a  voice 
in  the  ear — as  near  to  life  as  that.  You  have  not  aimed 
at  higher.  Do  so  in  your  next  effort.  Meanwhile  the 
present  is  a  distinct  achievement,  beyond  the  powers  of 
most. — Yours  very  truly, 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

*  For   Stevenson's  account   of   Henley   "in   hospital,"   see   p.    503. 


486  GEORGE    MEREDITH  [JSt.  74 

64] 


To  MRS.  BOVILL 
["THE  SHAVING  OF  SHAGPAT"] 

Box  HILL,  DORKING,  August  16,  1892. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Eovill,  — 

Wonderful  to  hear  that  there  is  a  woman  who  can  read 
of  Shagpat!  I  suppose  he  does  wear  a  sort  of  allegory. 
But  it  is  not  as  a  dress-suit;  rather  as  a  dressing-gown, 
very  loosely.  And  they  say  it  signifies  Humbug,  and  its 
attractiveness;  while  Noorna  is  the  spiritual  truth.  Poor 
Sh.  Bagarag  being  the  ball  between  the  two.  I  think  I 
once  knew  more  about  them  and  the  meaning,  but  have 
forgotten,  and  am  glad  to  forget,  seeing  how  abused  I 
have  been  for  having  written  the  book. 

I  was  pleased  to  have  your  letter,  and  shall  rejoice 
when  it  is  my  good  chance  to  meet  you  again.  —  Your  ever 
faithful 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

[^Et.  74] 

To  LADY  ULRICA  DUNCOMBE 
[A  "WEIGHT  OF  APPREHENSION";  "DIANA"] 

Box  HILL,  DORKING,  Autumn,  1902. 
....  .  Haldane,  staying  with  Riette  for  a  couple  of  days, 
came  here  on  Sunday,  and  pleased  me  by  talking  of  (one) 
whom  he  appreciates,  backing  her  in  all  her  acts.  We 
agreed  in  lamentable  views  of  the  condition  and  pros- 
pects of  our  country.  People  may  seem  astir;  they  are 
only  half  awake.  On  Thursday  F.  Greenwood  comes, 
and  I  shall  have  another  melancholy  feast  of  forebodings. 
On  no  other  subject  am  I  pessimistic.  I  foresee  a  sad- 
dened heart  for  Ulrica  reading  her  "Times"  in  days  when 
I  am  insensible  to  buffets.  For  forty  years  I  have  borne 
this  weight  of  apprehension.  Some  young  men  of  the 
Universities  show  signs  of  life.  G.  M.  Trevelyan  writes 
for  my  stated  approval  of  a  new  Review  that  will  speak 
boldly  upon  England's  needs  and  deficiencies,  and  be 
patriotic,  as  he  implies,  by  taking  a  wider  embrace  than 
common  patriotism.  We  have  to  think  beyond  the  purse 
and  the  heart  if  we  would  have  them  secure.  Of  course 


J3t.74]  GEORGE    MEREDITH  487 

I  wrote  the  words  he  wanted.  The  lucky  fellow  is  off 
by  way  of  Tyrol  to  the  Carpathians,  and  takes,  he  says, 
the  Duel  in  the  Pass,  in  "Vittoria,"  en  route.  How  I 
could  pray  to  show  you  the  scenes  of  Vittoria's  wander- 
ings with  Angelo  Guidascarpi  over  the  sub- Alpine  heights 
from  Brescia  to  Bormior  and  away  to  Meran  in  the  Adige 
valley.  I  was  there  when,  though  liking  the  Austrians, 
I  burned  for  Italy.  I  fancy  I  did  justice  to  both  sides. 
The  young  poet  Laurance  Binyon  has  written  to  me  for 
permission  to  make  use  of  the  story  of  Guidascarpi  for  a 
-drama  he  has  been  commissioned  to  compose  for  Mrs. 
Patrick  Campbell:  prose,  a  harder  task  in  English  than 
in  French.  Few  Englishmen  can  write  a  resonant  prose 
dialogue  that  is  not  blatant;  and  when  avoiding  those 
alarms,  they  drop  to  flabbiness.  It  is  merely  to  say  that 
Style  is  rarely  achieved  here.  Your  literary  hero,  lectur- 
ing on  Style,  may  have  a  different  opinion.  The  prose  in 
Shakespeare  and  in  Congreve  is  perfect.  They  have  al- 
ways the  right  accent  on  their  terminations.  Apart  from 
Drama,  Swift  is  a  great  exemplar;  Bolingbroke,  and  in 
his  mild  tea-table  way,  Addison,  follow.  Johnson  and 
Macaulay  wielded  bludgeons;  they  had  not  the  strength 
that  can  be  supple.  Gibbon  could  take  a  long  stride  with 
the  leg  of  a  dancing-master;  he  could  not  take  a  short 
one.  Matthew  Arnold  was  born  from  the  pulpit  and  oc- 
cupied it,  and  might  have  sermonised  for  all  time,  but 
that  he  conceived  the  head  of  the  clerk  below  to  be  the 
sconce  of  the  British  public,  and  that  he  must  drum  on 
it  with  an  iterated  phrase  perpetually  to  awaken  under- 
standing. However,  although  I  consider  it  unlikely  that 
I  am  in  accord  with  your  lecturer,  I  will  own  that  I  am 
beside  the  mark  in  addressing  you  upon  a  thing  he  will 
tiave  handled  more  effectively.  I  dread  the  presentation 
of  any  of  my  works  on  the  stage.  Here  is  another  Amer- 
ican actress  applying  for  permission  to  dramatise  "Diana." 
must  let  her  know  that  Ulrica  dislikes  the  character. 
Ulrica,  she  will  say,  is  very  English.  Yet  Ulrica  says 
of  herself,  that  she  has  imagination.  Then  she  ought 
to  be  able  to  enter  the  breast  of  a  passionate  woman,  a 
wife  widowed,  in  love,  much  needing  to  be  on  her  guard 
against  the  man,  ready  to  fly  with  him,  hating  to  in- 
trigue; and  while  she  totter  in  this  juncture,  assailed  by 


488  GEOEGE    MEKEDITH  |>Et.  77 

monetary  needs,  vain  of  her  touch  on  political  secrets, 
subject  in  a  crisis  to  a  swoon  of  the  mind — mark  that, 
O  imaginative  lady!  for  there  are  women  and  noble 
women,  who  stand  unpractised  and  alone  in  the  world, 
liable  to  these  attacks,  driven  for  the  moment  back  on 
their  instincts:  cannot  Ulrica  compassionately,  if  not  sis- 
terly, realize  the  position?  No,  I  §ee  her  affecting  medi- 
tation upon  it  with  the  bosom  of  a  rock  under  her  bal- 
ancing air,  or  say  a  person  called  on  by  his  Lord  to  be 
just  toward  one  who  has  impugned  his  creed.  "She  be- 
haved basely."  But  she  was  physically  and  mentally  un- 
aware of  the  importance  of  the  secret.  "She  ceases  to 
interest  me  from  that  instant  and  in  the  comparison  of 
her  deeds,  her  consideration  for  her  virtue  sickens  me." 
Better  if  that  had  broken  down,  by  the  accident  of  things, 
and  obviated  the  other;  but  be  charitable,  and  accept  the 
good  in  her — "I  can't."  Even  so  the  parson  with  the 
infidel.  I  had  intended  writing  a  lecture  this  time  on  one 
of  the  deep  themes  of  Life,  that  might  help  to  rational 
views.  It  shall  come.  You  are  not  to  be  bothered  about 
replying.  Evidently  you  find  it  a  burdensome  duty.  Just 
now  with  your  Coronation  robings  and  arrangements,  it 
would  task  you;  the  reading  of  letters  as  well,  till  the 
panting  fortnight  after  England's  greatest  event  has  gone 
by.  I  have  to  trust  that  you  will  bear  the  fatigue  of  the 
day. 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

[^Et.77] 

To  EDMUND  GOSSE 
["THE  DYNASTS"] 

Box  HILL,  DORKING,  July  2,  1905. 
Dear  Mr.  Gosse, — 

Your  letter  was  among  the  pleasantest  ones,  and  said 
the  most  to  me.  For  you  are  that  rare  thing  in  our  coun- 
try, a  critic — and  the  something  more  which  is  needed 
for  the  office, — or  else  we  have  a  Gifford  or  a  Jeffrey. 

Hardy  was  here  some  days  back.  I  am  always  glad  to 
see  him,,  and  have  regrets  at  his  going;  for  the  double 
reason,  that  I  like  him,  and  am  afflicted  by  his  twilight 
view  of  life.  He  questioned  me  as  to  "The  Dynasts."  I 


.Et.  77]  GEORGE   MEREDITH  489 

spoke  (needlessly)  in  favour  of  his  continuing  it  now 
that  it  had  a  commencement.  It  was  useless  to  say,  as 
I  think,  that  he  would  have  made  it  more  effective  in 
prose,  where  he  is  more  at  home  than  in  verse,  though 
here  and  there  he  produces  good  stuff.  Of  much  of 
Browning  I  could  say  the  same. 

Pray  give  me  a  chance  of  C3n  versing  with  you  some 
day  after  August.  —  Faithfully  yours, 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 


.  77] 

To  THE  RT.  HON.  JOHN  MORLEY 

["l    SHALL    RETAIN     MY    LAUGH    IN    DEATH'S    EAR"] 

Box  HILL,  DORKING,  Nov.  9,  1905. 
Dearest  Morley,  — 

The  thought  of  you  as  coming  here  with  a  chill  on  you 
gives  me  a  twitch  of  fever.  Send  me  word  of  your  present 
state.  As  for  me,  after  lying  on  my  back  three  weeks, 
I  find  that  I  have  been  shipped  by  Tedium  into  the 
region  of  Doldrums,  where  all  things  droop,  and  Patience, 
like  a  trodden  Toad,  hops  and  yawns  in  the  endeavour  to 
act  up  to  her  name,  under  whip  of  Necessity.  The  bone 
seems  to  be  mending.  To-morrow  a  man  comes  to  ex- 
amine it  by  X  rays.  If  favourable,  I  may  hope  to  have 
the  leg  in  plaster  of  Paris  and  say  good-bye  to  bed  by 
day.  Had  you  seen  the  leg  at  first,  you  would  have 
conceived  a  blackamoor  emerging  from  a  prize-fight.  Now 
it  is  like  Tommy  after  settling  accounts  at  school.  The 
accident  occurred  by  my  knocking  my  foot  on  the  scul- 
lery threshold,  so  that  I  pitched  forward  while  my  foot 
was  held  and  twisted. 

Give  my  love  to  your  wife.  I  have  tried  to  be  worthy 
of  her  resignation,  and  can  imagine  that  I  shall  retain 
my  laugh  in  Death's  ear,  for  that  is  what  our  Maker 
prizes  in  men.  —  All  yours, 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 


490  CHARLES    L.    DODGSON  [>Et.  41 

80] 


To  MRS.   STURGIS* 
["THE  SCRIPTURE  MOVETH  us"] 

Box  HILL,  DORKING,  August  20,  1908. 
My  Dearie,  — 

We  have  now  S.west  wind,  fleets  of  white  cloud  and 
breezy  .foliage.  But  there  are  showers  and  you  may  have 
them.  Be  careful  as  to  your  hold  of  the  umbrella  in 
your  dash  to  the  Danish  Pavilion,  for  the  gusts  at  Over- 
strand  are  very  treacherous.  Several  women  there  have 
been  taken  up,  and  landed  below  the  cliffs  —  comfortably 
enough,  as  it  chanced,  but  causing  perturbation.  One 
old  lady,  however,  on  her  way  to  Church,  a  Mrs.  Humfer 
(you  may  look  for  the  name  in  the  Churchyard),  went 
aloft,  and  unfortunately,  just  on  the  ridge  of  the  cliffs, 
her  'brella  turned  its  sustaining  cup  upward  and  down 
she  came,  by  good  luck  in  the  water.  There  the  rescuer 
heard  her  saying,  as  if  in  response  with  the  Minister  at 
Lessons:  "The  Scripture  moveth  us  in  sundry  places"; 
and  she  continued  repeating  it.  For  this  reason,  take 
my  counsel,  and  the  moment  you  feel  the  'brella  pulling, 
let  go  at  once.  It  may  save  you  from  another  surgeon. 
In  any  case,  I  would  not  have  you  be  the  talk  of  Cromer, 
and  the  subject  of  Ballads.  —  The  news  here  is  of  Charlie 
Lewin's  marriage,  16th  Sept.,  at  Holmbury. 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 


.  41] 
CHAELES   L.   D.ODGSON    (LEWIS    CAREOLL) 

1832-1898 

To  A  CHILD  (Miss  GAYNOR  SIMPSON) 
["DANCING,  OF  MY  PECULIAR  KIND"] 

December  27,  1873. 
My  dear  Gay  nor,  — 

My  name  is  spelt  with  a  "G,"  that  is  to  say  "Dodgson" 
Any  one  who  spells  it  the  same  as  that  wretch  (I  mean 
of  course  the  Chairman  of  Committees  in  the  House  of 
Commons)  -offends  me  deeply,  and  for  ever!  It  is  a  thing 

*  His  dr'.iTMer. 


JSt.48]  WILLIAM    MORRIS  491 

I  can  forget,  but  never  can  forgive!  If  you  do  it  again, 
I  shall  call  you  "  'aynor."  Could  you  live  happy  with  such 
a  name? 

As  to  dancing,  my  dear,  I  never  dance,  unless  I  am 
allowed  to  do  it  in  my  own  peculiar  way.  There  is  no  use 
trying  to  describe  it:  it  has  to  be  seen  to  be  believed. 
The  last  house  I  tried  it  in,  the  floor  broke  through. 
But  then  it  was  a  poor  sort  of  floor — the  beams  were  only 
six  inches  thick,  hardly  worth  calling  beams  at  all:  stone 
arches  are  much  more  sensible,  when  any  dancing,  of 
my  peculiar  kind,  is  to  be  done.  Did  you  ever  see  the 
Rhinoceros,  and  the  Hippopotamus,  at  the  Zoological  Gar- 
dens, trying  to  dance  a  minuet  together?  It  is  a  touch- 
ing sight. 

Give  any  message  from  me  to  Amy  that  you  think  will 
be  most  likely  to  surprise  her,  and  believe  me, 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

LEWIS  CARROLL. 


[^Et.48]  WILLIAM    MORRIS 

1834-1896 
To  A  FRIEND 
[SWINBURNE] 

[1882] 

As  to  the  poem,*  I  have  made  two  or  three  attempts  to 
read  it,  but  have  failed,  not  being  in  the  mood  I  sup- 
pose: nothing  would  lay  hold  of  me  at  all.  This  is 
doubtless  my  own  fault,  since  it  certainly  did  seem  very 
fine.  But,  to  confess  and  be  hanged,  you  know  I  never 
could  really  sympathize  with  Swinburne's  work;  it  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  to  be  founded  on  literature,  not  on 
nature.  In  saying  this  I  really  cannot  accuse  myself  of 
any  jealousy  on  the  subject,  as  I  think  also  you  will  not. 
Now  I  believe  that  Swinburne's  sympathy  with  literature 
is  most  genuine  and  complete;  and  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
hear  him  talk  about  it,  which  he  does  in  the  best  vein 
possible;  he  is  most  steadily  enthusiastic  about  it.  Now 
time  was  when  the  poetry  resulting  merely  from  this 

*  Tristram   of  Lyonesse. 


492  WILLIAM    MORRIS  |>Et.  60 

intense  study  and  love  of  literature  might  have  been, 
if  not  the  best,  yet  at  any  rate  very  worthy  and  endur- 
ing: but  in  these  days  when  all  the  arts,  even  poetry, 
are  like  to  be  overwhelmed  under  the  mass  of  material 
riches  which  civilization  has  made  and  is  making  more 
and  more  hastily  every  day;  riches  which  the  world  has 
made  indeed,  but  cannot  use  to  any  good  purpose:  in 
these  days  the  issue  between  art,  that  is,  the  godlike  part 
of  man,  and  mere  bestiality,  is  so  momentous,  and  the  sur- 
roundings of  life  are  so  stern  and  unplayful,  that  noth- 
ing can  take  serious  hold  of  people,  or  should  do  so, 
but  that  which  is  rooted  deepest  in  reality  and  is  quite 
at  first  hand:  there  is  no  room  for  anything  which  is  not 
forced  out  of  a  man  of  deep  feeling,  because  of  its  in- 
nate strength  and  vision. 

In  all  this  I  may  be  quite  wrong  and  the  lack  may  be 
in  myself:  I  only  state  my  opinion,  I  don't  defend  it; 
still  less  do  I  my  own  poetry. 


[^Et.  60] 

To  PHILIP  WEBB* 
["THE  PUBLIC  DOES  NOT  REALLY  CARE  ABOUT  THEM"] 

KELMSCOTT  HOUSED 

August  27th,  '94. 
My  dear  Fellow, — 

A  traveller  once  entered  a  western  hotel  in  America 
and  went  up  to  the  clerk  in  his  box  (as  the  custom  is  in 
that  country)  and  ordered  chicken  for  his  dinner:  the 
clerk,  without  any  trouble  in  his  face,  put  his  hand  into 
his  desk,  and  drew  out  a  derringer,  wherewith  he  cov- 
ered the  newcomer  and  said  in  a  calm  historic  voice : 
"Stranger,  you  will  not  have  chicken,  you  will  have  hash." 

This  story  you  seem  to  have  forgotten.  So  I  will  apply 
it,  and  say  that  you  will  have  the  Kelmscott  books  as 
they  come  out.  In  short  you  will  have  hash  because  it 
would  upset  me  very  much  if  you  did  not  have  a  share 
in  my  "larx." 

As  to  the  Olaf  Saga,  I  had  forgotten  what  you  had 

*  Who  had  remonstrated  at  Morris's  generosity  in  presenting  him  with 
copies  of  Kelmscott  books. 


^Et.  47]  PHILLIPS   BROOKS  493 

had;  chiefly  I  think  because  I  did  not  prize  the  big- 
paper  copies  much.  They  were  done  in  the  days  of  ig- 
norance, before  the  Kelmscott  Press  was,  though  hard  on 
the  time  when  it  began. 

You  see  as  to  all  these  matters  I  do  the  books  mainly 
for  you  and  one  or  two  others;  the  public  does  not  really 
care  about  them  a  damn — which  is  stale.  But  I  tell  you 
I  want  you  to  have  them,  and  finally  you  shall. 

Yours  affectionately, 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 


[^Et.47]  PHILLIPS    BROOKS 

1835-1893 

To  CHARLES  D.  COOPER 
[IMPRESSIONS  OF  INDIA] 

CHEDAMBARAM,   [INDIA,] 

February  22,  1883. 
Dear  Cooper, — 

In  case  you  do  not  know  where  Chedambaram  is,  I 
will  tell  you  that  it  is  just  ten  miles  from  Vaithisvaran- 
koil,  and  it  is  hotter  than  Philadelphia  in  fly  time.  I 
have  been  celebrating  the  birthday  of  Mr.  Washington 
by  firing  off  bottles  of  soda  water  all  the  morning  ever 
since  we  came  in  from  our  early  visit  to  the  wonderful 
pagoda  which  is  the  marvel  of  this  beautiful  but  be- 
nighted heathen  town.  The  only  way  to  see  things  here 
in  Southern  India  is  to  start  at  daybreak,  when  the 
country  is  cool  and  lovelier  than  anything  you  can  im- 
agine. The  palm-trees  are  .waving  in  the  early  breeze. 
The  elephants  go  crushing  along  with  painted  trunks  and 
gilded  tusks.  The  pretty  Hindu  girls  are  drawing  water 
at  the  wells  under  the  banana  groves.  The  naked  chil- 
dren are  frolicking  in  the  dust  of  the  bazaars.  The  old 
men  and  women  are  drinking  their  early  cocoanut,  and 
you  jolt  along  on  the  straw,  in  your  creaking  bullock 
cart,  as  jolly  as  a  rajah.  So  we  went  this  morning  to  do 
homage  to  the  false  gods.  Vishnu  had  gone  off  on  a  pil- 
grimage, and  his  shrine  was  empty,  but  Siva  was  at  home, 
and  the  howling  devotees  were  in  the  middle  of  the  morn- 
ing service.  They  must  have  been  about  at  the  second 


494  PHILLIPS    BEOOKS  |>Et.  47 

lesson  when  we  arrived,  but,  owing  to  the  peculiar  char- 
acter of  their  language,  it  was  not  easy  to  make  out 
just  what  stage  of  the  morning  exercises  they  had  reached. 
But  it  didn't  much  matter,  for  immediately  on  our  ar- 
rival the  worship  stopped  where  it  was,  and  the  officiating 
clergyman  came  forward  and  ridiculously  presented  us 
with  a  lime  each,  and  then  tried  to  put  a  garland  of 
flowers  about  our  Christian  necks.  This  last  attention 
I  refused  with  indignation,  at  his  making  a  heathen  so 
summarily  out  of  a  respectable  presbyter  of  the  P.  E. 
Church  from  Bishop  Paddock's  diocese.  He  gracefully 
intimated  that  he  didn't  mind  my  being  mad,  but  would 
pocket  the  insult  (or  do  whatever  a  fellow  does  who  has 
no  pocket,  or  indeed  anything  else  except  a  dirty  rag 
about  his  loins),  provided  I  gave  him  the  rupee  which 
he  expected  all  the  same.  While  I  was  doing  this  there 
was  a  noise  like  seven  pandemoniums  outside,  and  soon 
in  through  the  gate  came  a  wild  crowd  of  savages,  yelling 
like  fiends  and  carrying  on  their  shoulders  a  great  plat- 
form on  which  was  a  big  brass  idol  all  daubed  with 
grease  and  hung  with  flowers.  This  was  Vishnu,  just 
returned  from  his  sea  bath,  and  in  front  of  him  came 
the  craziest  band  of  music  made  up  of  lunatics  banging  on 
tom-toms  and  screeching  away  on  brazen  trumpets  three 
feet  long.  We  saw  the  ugly  Divinity  safe  in  his  shrine, 
and  left  the  pagans  yelling  in  their  joy  at  getting  their 
ugly  image  safely  home. 

By  this  time  the  sun  was  blazing,  as  I  said,  and  we 
came  home  to  the  bungalow,  which  does  duty  for  a  tav- 
ern, and  set  a  small  Hindu  to  pulling  away  at  a  punkah 
rope  at  the  cost  of  three  cents  a  day.  Then  we  cut  up 
our  sacred  limes  and  poured  soda  water  on  the  juice  of 
them  and  made  a  drink  which  I  advise  you  to  try  if 
ever  you  Have  to  spend  a  hot  day  in  Chedambaram. 
Then  we  breakfasted  on  rice  and  curry  and  fried  bana- 
nas, and  then  I  thought  I  would  write  to  you  and  send 
you  m-y  blessing  out  of  the  depths  of  this  Hindu  dark- 
ness. 

I  can't  tell  you  what  a  delightful  thing  this  Indian 
trip  has  been.  From  the  snows  of  the  Himalayas  down 
to  these  burning  and  luxuriant  tropics,  from  the  wonder- 
ful beauty  of  the  exquisite  Taj  of  the  Mohammedan  Em- 


Mt.  28]     JOHN   ADDINGTON    SYMONDS  495 

peror  at  Agra  down  to  the  grotesque  splendor  of  this 
great  Brahmin  sanctuary  which  we  have  seen  to-day, 
everything  has  been  fascinating.  Oh,  if  you  and  Mc- 
Vickar  and  George  Strong  had  been  with  me  all  the  way! 
I  have  had  a  pleasant  young  companion,  who  has  behaved 
beautifully  except  when  he  got  the  smallpox  in  Delhi, 
and  kept  us  there  two  weeks.  But  Delhi  is,  after  all, 
the  most  interesting  place  in  India,  and  if  he  was  going 
to  do  it  he  could  not  have  chosen  a  better  place.  We 
were  guests  there  of  some  fine  young  English  mission- 
aries, who  behaved  splendidly  under  the  affliction  "which 
we  brought  down  upon  them,  and  I  went  about  with  them 
and  saw  the  ins  and  outs  of  missionary  life  which,  when 
the  right  men  are  at  it,  is  a  splendid  thing. 

The  hot  season  has  set  in  within  the  last  few  days  and 
we  must  be  away,  but  I  shall  leave  these  gentle  Hindus 
and  their  lovely  land  with  great  regret.  Now  we  are  on 
our  way  to  Ceylon,  and  two  weeks  from  to-day  we  sail 
from  Colombo  back  to  Suez,  and  then  comes  Spain.  Are 
you  right  well,  old  fellow,  and  does  the  dear  old  study 
look  just  the  way  it  used  to  do,  and  are  you  counting  as 
much  as  I  am  the  time  when  we  shall  meet  again  there 
at  General  Convention,  and  talk  it  all  over  and  abuse 
the  -  s  in  the  dear  old  way? 

Ever  and  ever  yours, 

P.  B. 


.  28] 

JOHN   ADDINGTON    SYMONDS 

1840-1893 

To  HENRY  SIDGWICK 
["RICHARD  FEVEREL"] 

[CLIFTON  HILL  HOUSE, 

May  17,   1869.] 

We  are  still  exiles  from  our  house,  which  is  at  present 
a  chaos.  The  movers  of  my  goods  have  lost  above  three 
boxes  of  my  favourite  books,  ingeniously  selected  from 
the  beginnings  and  ends  of  editions. 

I  have  finished  "Richard  Feverel."  I  kept  constantly 
telling  myself  that  "this  novelist  is  a  poet,"  and  when  I 
came  to  the  chapter  called  "An  Enchantress,"  I  felt  that 


496  JOHN   ADDINGTON    SYMONDS     [^Et.  45 

the  nineteenth  century  was  ever  so  far  ahead  of  the 
Elizabethans.  Suddenly  I  remembered  that  these  were 
both  your  ideas.  The  man  affects  me  terribly.  I  quite 
see  why,  in  spite  of  his  being  one  of  our  greatest  novel- 
ists, he  is  not  read.  The  sense  of  pain  produced  by 
R.  E.  is  intense.  My  mind  ached  at  passages.  I  was 
stifled,  and  had  to  stop  reading.  Even  Balzac  does  not 
so  affect  me,  for  Balzac  is  more  scientific  on  the  one 
side,  and  more  in  his  subject  on  the  other.  What  is 
terrible  about  G.  M.  is,  that  he  feels  it  as  a  poet,  and 
stands  aside  from  it  as  an  ironic  showman.  There  is  a 
great  want  of  truth,  verisimilitude  rather,  about  some  of 
the  characters.  I  don't  realise  Sir  Austin,  or  indeed 
Richard,  except  as  a  picture. 

Since  I  last  wrote  things  have  not  altered  much,  ex- 
cept that  my  emotions  are  less  occupied  and  my  imag- 
ination more  exercised.  It  is  difficult  to  do  anything 
educationally,  or  towards  living  in  common  here.  But 
I  grow  and  steady  and  intensify  in  feeling.  The  lec- 
tures do  pretty  well,  but  I  have  not  the  art  of  lecturing; 
and  I  do  not  believe  in  my  own  lectures.  Yet  I  keep  a 
fair  face  and  try  to  be  impressive. 


.  45] 

To  ROBERT  Louis   STEVENSON 

["DR.    JEKYLL   AND   MR.    HYDE/'   WITH   A   SUGGESTION] 

DAVOS,  March  1,  1886. 

I  doubt  whether  any  one  has  the  right  so  to  scrutinise 
"the  abysmal  deeps  of  personality."  You  see  I  have  been 
reading  Dr.  Jekyll.  At  least  I  think  he  ought  to  bring 
more  of  distinct  belief  in  the  resources  of  human  nature, 
more  faith,  more  sympathy  with  our  frailty,  into  the 
matter  than  you  have  done.  The  art  is  burning  and  in- 
tense. The  Peau  de  Chagrin  disappears,  and  Poe's  work  is 
water.  Also  one  discerns  at  once  that  this  is  an  allegory 
of  all  two-nat'ired  souls  who  yield  consciously  to  evil. 
Most  of  us  °,re  on  the  brink  of  educating  a  Mr.  Hyde 
at  some  epoch  of  our  being.  But  the  scientific  cast  of  the 
allegory  will  only  act  as  an  incentive  to  moral  self-murder 
with  those  who  perceive  the  allegory's  profundity.  Louis, 


Mt.  50]     JOHN   ADDINGTON    SYMONDS  497 

how  had  you  the  "ilia  dura,  ferro  et  aere  triplici  duriora," 
to  write  Dr.  Jekyll?  I  know  now  what  was  meant  when 
you  were  called  a  sprite. 

You  see  I  am  trembling  under  the  magician's  wand  of 
your  fancy,  and  rebelling  against  it  with  the  scorn  of  a 
soul  that  hates  to  be  contaminated  with  the  mere  picture 
of  victorious  evil.  Our  only  chance  seems  to  me  to  be 
to  maintain,  against  all  appearances,  that  evil  can  never 
and  in  no  way  be  victorious. 

I  would  that  you  would  tell  me  whether  you  only  used 
your  terrible  motif  as  a  good  ground-work  for  a  ghastly 
tale,  or  whether  you  meant  it  to  have  a  moral  purpose. 
But  I  suppose  you  won't  tell  me. 

I  seem  to  have  lost  you  so  utterly  that  I  can  afford 
to  fling  truth  of  the  crudest  in  your  face.  And  yet  I 
love  you  and  think  of  you  daily,  and  have  Dew  Smith's 
portrait  of  you  in  front  of  me. 

The  suicide  end  of  Dr.  Jekyll  is  too  commonplace. 
Dr.  Jekyll  ought  to  have  given  Mr.  Hyde  up  to  justice. 
This  would  have  vindicated  the  sense  of  human  dignity 
which  is  so  horribly  outraged  in  your  book. 


[^Et.  50] 

To  EDMUND  GOSSE 
[TOBOGGANING] 

DAVOS,  February  23rd,  1891. 

...  I  have  lost  my  power  of  living  like  an  invalid. 
The  constant  effort  of  a  lifetime  to  control  my  health 
and  create  the  best  conditions  for  repelling  disease,  has 
worn  my  faculties  of  endurance  out.  So  I  do  things  now 
which  are  not  prudent.  I  drove  yesterday  to  a  village  two 
hours  away  from  here;  attended  a  peasant  theatre,  which 
was  tremendous  fun;  dined  with  three  good  companions, 
Swiss ;  and  drove  home  at  midnight  in  an  open  sledge 
under  the  most  glorious  moon  and  icy  wind  from  the 
glaciers.  This  is  not  a  cure  for  bronchitis.  And  again, 
to-day,  I  started  with  my  girls  and  our  toboggans,  and 
ran  a  course  of  four  miles,  crashing  at  lightning  speed 
over  the  snow  and  ice.  We  did  the  journey  in  about 
eleven  minutes,  and  I  came  in  breathless,  dead-beat,  al- 


498  SIDNEY   LANIER  [^Et.  35 

most  fainting.  Then  home  in  the  railway,  with  open 
windows  and  a  mad  crew  of  young  men  and  maidens 
excited  by  this  thrilling  exercise.  It  was  solemn  -and 
beautiful  upon  the  run.  The  sun  had  set,  but  all  the 
heavens  were  rosy  with  its  after-glow,  and  the  peaks  and 
snow-fields  which  surrounded  us  shone  in  every  tone 
of  crimson  and  saffron.  Then  from  behind  the  vast 
black  bulk  of  a  mountain  mass,  the  rising  full  moon  swam 
rapidly  upon  our  sight,  a  huge  transpicuous  dew-pearl  of 
intensest  green,  bathed  in  the  warm  colours  of  the  burn- 
ing skies.  People  who  summer  in  the  Arctic  circle  de- 
scribe these  luminous  effects.  Our  rapid  motion  through 
the  celestial  wonders  and  over  the  myriad-tinted  snow- 
path,  added  an  intoxicating  glory  to  the  vision — until, 
as  we  descended  from  the  upper  height,  the  splendours 
and  the  path  we  sped  upon  were  swallowed  up  in  vast 
chasms  of  primeval  pine-forests,  whence  we  emerged  again 
into  the  flooding  silver  of  the  moon,  which  at  a  lower 
level  strove  victoriously  with  the  sunset-incandescence 
we  had  left  behind.  But  this  again  was  no  cure  for 
bronchitis.  I  have  just  supped  at  11  P.  M.,  and  am 
writing  to  you  with  pipe  in  mouth  before  I  turn  into 
bed. 


[^Et.35]  SIDNEY    LANIER 

1842-1881 
To  GIBSON  PEACOCK 

^  [SETTLING  AT  BALTIMORE] 

33  DENMEAD  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 

January  6,  1878. 

The  painters,  the  whitewashers,  the  plumbers,  the  lock- 
smiths, the  carpenters,  the  gas-fitters,  the  stove-put-up- 
ers,  the  carmen,  the  piano-movers,  the  carpet-layers, — all 
these  have  I  seen,  bargained  with,  reproached  for  bad 
jobs,  and  finally  paid  off:  I  have  also  coaxed  my  land- 
lord into  all  manner  of  outlays  for  damp  walls,  cold 
bathrooms,  and  other  like  matters:  I  have  furthermore 
bought  at  least  three  hundred  and  twenty-seven  house- 
hold utensils  which  suddenly  came  to  be  absolutely  nec- 
essary to  our  existence:  I  have  moreover  hired  a  colored 


JSt.  35]  SIDNEY    LANTEK  499 

gentlewoman  who  is  willing  to  wear  out  my  carpets,  burn 
out  my  range,  freeze  out  my  water-pipes,  and  be  gen- 
erally useful:  I  have  also  moved  my  family  into  our 
new  home,  have  had  a  Xmas  tree  for  the  youngsters, 
have  looked  up  a  cheap  school  for  Harry  and  Sidney, 
have  discharged  my  daily  duties  as  first  flute  of  the 
Peabody  Orchestra,  have  written  a  couple  of  poems  and 
part  of  an  essay  on  Beethoven  and  Bismarck,  have  ac- 
complished at  least  a  hundred  thousand  miscellaneous 
necessary  nothings, — and  have  not,  in  consequence  of  the 
aforesaid,  sent  to  you  and  my  dear  Maria  the  loving 
greetings  whereof  my  heart  has  been  full  during  the 
whole  season.  Maria's  cards  were  duly  distributed,  and 
.we  were  all  touched  with  her  charming  little  remem- 
brances. With  how  much  pleasure  do  I  look  forward  to 
the  time  when  I  may  kiss  her  hand  in  my  own  house! 
We  are  in  a  state  of  supreme  content  with  our  new 
home:  it  really  seems  to  me  as  incredible  that  myriads 
of  people  have  been  living  in  their  own  homes  here- 
tofore as  to  the  young  couple  with  a  first  baby  it  seems 
impossible  that  a  great  many  other  couples  have  had  simi- 
lar prodigies.  It  is  simply  too  delightful.  Good  heavens, 
how  I  wish  that  the  whole  world  had  a  Home! 

I  confess  I  am  a  little  nervous  about  the  gas-bills, 
which  must  come  in,  in  the  course  of  time;  and  there 
are  the  water-rates,  and  several  sorts  of  imposts  and  taxes : 
but  then,  the  dignity  of  being  liable  for  such  things  ( !) 
is  a  very  supporting  consideration.  No  man  is  a  Bo- 
hemian who  has  to  pay  water-rates  and  a  street-tax. 
Every  day  when  I  sit  down  in  my  dining-room — my 
dining-room! — I  find  the  wish  growing  stronger  that 
each  poor  soul  in  Baltimore,  whether  saint  or  sinner, 
could  come  and  dine  with  me.  How  I  would  carve  out 
the  merrythoughts  for  the  old  hags!  How  I  would 
stuff  the  big  wall-eyed  rascals  till  their  rags  ripped 
again!  There  was  a  knight  of  old  times  who  built  the 
dining-hall  of  his  castle  across  the  highway,  so  that  every 
wayfarer  must  perforce  pass  through:  there  the  traveller, 
rich  or  poor,  found  always  a  trencher  and  wherewithal 
to  fill  it.  Three  times  a  day,  in  my  own  chair  at  my  own 
table,  do  I  envy  that  knight  and  wish  that  I  might  do 
as  he  did. 


[^Et.21]     KOBEKT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 

1850-1894 

To  ALISON  CUNNINGHAM 
[TO  HIS  NURSE] 

[1871?] 
My  dear  Gummy, — 

I  was  greatly  pleased  by  your  letter  in  many  ways. 
Of  course,  I  was  glad  to  hear  from  you;  you  know,  you 
and  I  have  so  many  old  stories  between  us,  that  even  if 
there  was  nothing  else,  even  if  there  was  not  a  very 
sincere  respect  and  affection,  we  should  always  be  glad 
to  pass  a  nod.  I  say  "even  if  there  was  not."  But  you 
know  right  well  there  is.  Do  not  suppose  that  I  shall 
ever  forget  those  long,  bitter  nights,  when  I  coughed  and 
coughed  and  was  so  unhappy,  and  you  were  so  patient  and 
loving  with  a  poor,  sick  child.  Indeed,  Gummy,  I  wish 
I  might  become  a  man  worth  talking  of,  if  it  were  only 
that  you  should  not  have  thrown  away  your  pains. 

Happily,  it  is  not  the  result  of  our  acts  that  makes 
them  brave  and  noble,  but  the  acts  themselves  and  the 
unselfish  love  that  moved  us  to  do  them.  "Inasmuch  as 
you  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these."  My 
dear  old  nurse,  and  you  know  there  is  nothing  a  man 
can  say  nearer  his  heart  except  his  mother  or  his  wife — 
my  dear  old  nurse,  God  will  make  good  to  you  all  the 
good  that  you  have  done,  and  mercifully  forgive  you  all 
the  evil.  And  next  time  when  the  spring  comes  round, 
and  everything  is  beginning  once  again,  if  you  should 
happen  to  think  that  you  might  have  had  a  child  of  your 
own,  and  that  it  was  hard  you  should  have  spent  so  many 
years  taking  care  of  some  one  else's  prodigal,  just  you 
think  this — you  have  been  for  a  great  deal  in  my  life ; 
you  have  made  much  that  there  is  in  me,  just  as  surely 
as  if  you  had  conceived  me;  and  there  are  sons  who  are 
more  ungrateful  to  their  own  mothers  than  I  am  to  you. 
For  I  am  not  ungrateful,  my  dear  Gummy,  and  it  is 
with  a  very  sincere  emotion  that  I  write  myself  your 
little  boy, 

Louis. 


500 


.  22]      EOBEKT    LOUIS    STEVENSON  501 

.  22] 


To  CHARLES  BAXTER 
[SCOTCH  THEOLOGY] 

17  HERIOT  Row,  EDINBURGH, 

Sunday,  February  2,  1873. 
My  dear  Baxter,  — 

The  thunderbolt  has  fallen  with  a  vengeance  now.  On 
Friday  night  after  leaving  you,  in  the  course  of  conver- 
sation, my  father  put  me  one  or  two  questions  as  to 
beliefs,  which  I  candidly  answered.  I  really  hate  all 
lying  so  much  now  —  a  new-found  honesty  that  has  some- 
how come  out  of  my  late  illness  —  that  I  could  not  so 
much  as  hesitate  at  the  time;  but  if  I  had  foreseen  the 
real  hell  of  everything  since,  I  think  I  should  have  lied, 
as  I  have  done  so  often  before.  I  so  far  thought  of 
my  father,  but  I  had  forgotten  my  mother.  And  now! 
they  are  both  ill,  both  silent,  both  as  down  in  the  mouth 
as  if  —  I  can  find  no  simile.  You  may  fancy  how  happy 
it  is  for  me.  If  it  were  not  too  late,  I  think  I  could 
almost  find  it  in  my  heart  to  retract,  btft  it  is  too  late; 
and  again,  am  I  to  live  my  whole  life  as  one  falsehood? 
Of  course,  it  is  rougher  than  hell  upon  my  father,  but 
can  I  help  it?  They  don't  see  either  that  my  game  is 
not  the  light-hearted  scoffer;  that  I  am  not  (as  they 
call  me)  a  careless  infidel.  I  believe  as  much  as  they 
do,  only  generally  in  the  inverse  ratio:  I  am,  I  think, 
as  honest  as  they  can  be  in  what  I  hold.  I  have  not 
come  hastily  to  my  views.  I  reserve  (as  I  told  them) 
many  points  until  I  acquire  fuller  information,  and  do 
not  think  I  am  thus  justly  to  be  called  "horrible  atheist." 

Now  what  is  to  take  place?  What  a  curse  I  am  to  my 
parents  !  O  Lord,  what  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  have 
just  damned  the  happiness  of  (probably)  the  only  two 
people  who  care  a  damn  about  you  in  the  world! 

What  is  my  life  to  be  at  this  rate?  What,  you  rascal? 
Answer  —  -I  have  a  pistol  at  your  throat.  If  all  that  I 
hold  true  and  most  desire  to  spread  is  to  be  such  death, 
and  worse  than  death,  in  the  eyes  of  my  father  and 
mother,  what  the  devil  am  I  to  do? 

Here  is  a  good  heavy  cross  with  a  vengeance,  and  all 
rough  with  rusty  nails  that  tear  your  fingers,  only  it  is 


502  ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON      |>Et.  24 

not  I  that  have  to  carry  it  alone;  I  hold  the  light  end, 
but  the  heavy  burden  falls  on  these  two. 

Don't — I  don't  know  what  I  was  going  to  say.  I  am 
an  abject  idiot,  which,  all  things  considered,  is  not 
remarkable. — Ever  your  affectionate  and  horrible  atheist, 

R.  L.  STEVENSON. 

|>Et.  24] 

To  MRS.   SITWELL 
[CHILDREN;  EARLY  WRITING;  A  POET] 

EDINBURGH,  Tuesday  [January,  1875]. 

I  got  your  nice  long  gossiping  letter  to-day — I  mean 
by  that  that  there  was  more  news  in  it  than  usual — and 
so,  of  course,  I  am  pretty  jolly.  I  am  in  the  house, 
however,  with  such  a  beastly  cold  in  the  head.  Our  east 
winds  begin  already  to  be  very  cold. 

O,  I  have  such  a  longing  for  children  of  my  own;  and 
yet  I  do  not  think  I  could  bear  it  if  I  had  one.  I  fancy 
I  must  feel  more  like  a  woman  than  like  a  man  about 
that.  I  sometimes  hate  the  children  I  see  on  the  street — 
you  know  what  I  mean  by  hate — wish  they  were  some- 
where else,  and  not  there  to  mock  me ;  and  sometimes, 
again,  I  don't  know  how  to  go  by  them  for  the  love 
of  them,  especially  the  very  wee  ones. 

Thursday. — I  have  been  still  in  the  house  since  I  wrote, 
and  I  have  worked.  I  finished  the  Italian  story;  not 
well,  but  as  well  as  I  can  just  now;  I  must  go  all  over 
it  again,  some  time  soon,  when  I  feel  in  the  humour  to 
better  and  perfect  it.  And  now  I  have  taken  up  an  old 
story,  begun  years  ago;  and  I  have  now  rewritten  all  I 
ha,d  written  of  it  then,  and  mean  to  finish  it.  What  I 
have  lost  and  gained  is  odd.  As  far  as  regards  simple 
writing,  of  course,  I  am  in  another  world  now;  but  in 
some  things,  though  more  clumsy,  I  seem  to  have  been 
freer  and  more  plucky:  this  is  a  lesson  I  have  taken  to 
heart.  I  ,have  got  a  jolly  new  name  for  my  old  story. 
I  am  going  to  call  it  A  Country  Dance;  the  two  heroes 
keep  changing  places,  you  know;  and  the  chapter  where 
the  most  of  this  changing  goes  on  is  to  be  called  "Up  the 
middle,  down  the  middle."  It  will  be  in  six  or  (per- 


Mt.  29]      EGBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON  502 

haps)  seven  chapters.    I  have  never  worked  harder  in  my 
life  than  these  last  four  days.     If  I  can  only  keep  it  up. 

Saturday. — Yesterday,  Leslie  Stephen,  who  was  down 
here  to  lecture,  called  on  me  and  took  me  up  to  see  a 
poor  fellow,*  a  poet  who  writes  for  him,  and  who  has 
been  eighteen  months  in  our  infirmary,  and  may  be,  for 
all  I  know,  eighteen  months  more.  It  was  very  sad  to 
see  him  there,  in  a  little  room  with  two  beds,  and  a 
couple  of  sick  children  in  the  other  bed;  a  girl  came  in 
to  visit  the  children,  and  played  dominoes  on  the  coun- 
terpane with  them;  the  gas  flared  and  crackled,  the  fire 
burned  in  a  dull  economical  way;  Stephen  and  I  sat  on 
a  couple  of  chairs,  and  the  poor  fellow  sat  up  in  his 
bed  with  his  hair  and  beard  all  tangled,  and  talked  as 
cheerfully  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  King's  palace,  or  the 
great  King's  palace  of  the  blue  air.  He  has  taught 
himself  two  languages  since  he  has  been  lying  there. 
I  shall  try  to  be  of  use  to  him. 

We  have  had  two  beautiful  spring  days,  mild  as  milk, 
windy  withal,  and  the  sun  hot.  I  dreamed  last  night 
I  was  walking  by  moonlight  round  the  place  where  the 
scene  of  my  story  is  laid;  it  was  all  so  quiet  and  sweet, 
and  the  blackbirds  were  singing  as  if  it  was  day;  it 
made  my  heart  very  cool  and  happy. — Ever  yours, 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 

|>Et.  29] 

To  W.  E.  HENLET 
["ACROSS  THE  PLAINS"] 

CROSSING  NEBRASKA,  [1879]. 
My  dear  Henley, — 

I  am  sitting  on  the  top  of  the  cars  with  a  mill  party 
from  Missouri  going  west  for  his  health.  Desolate  flat 
prairie  upon  all  hands.  Here  and  there  a  herd  of  cattle; 
a  yellow  butterfly  or  two;  a  patch  of  wild  sunflowers; 
a  wooden  house  or  two;  then  a  wooden  church  alone  in 
miles  of  waste;  then  a  wind-mill  to  pump  water.  When 
we  stop,  which  we  do  often,  for  emigrants  and  freight 
travel  together,  the  kine  first,  the  men  after,  the  whole 

*  W.  E.  Henley. 


504  KOBEKT    LOUIS    STEVENSON      |VEt.  29 

plain  is  heard  singing  with  cicadse.  This  is  a  pause,  as 
you  may  see  from  the  writing.  What  happened  to  the 
old  pedestrian  emigrants,  what  was  the  tedium  suffered 
by  the  Indians  and  trappers  of  our  youth,  the  imag- 
ination trembles  to  conceive.  This  is  now  Saturday, 
23rd,  and  I  have  been  steadily  travelling  since  I  parted 
from  you  at  St.  Pancras.  It  is  a  strange  vicissitude 
from  the . Savile  Club  to  this;  I  sleep  with  a  man  from 
Pennsylvania  who  has  been  in  the  States  Navy,  and  mess 
with  him  and  the  Missouri  bird  already  alluded  to.  We 
have  a  tin  wash-bowl  among  four.  I  wear  nothing  but 
a  shirt  and  a  pair  of  trousers,  and  never  button  my  shirt. 
When  I  land  for  a  meal,  I  pass  my  coat  and  feel 
dressed.  This  life  is  to  last  till  Friday,  Saturday,  or 
Sunday  next.  It  is  a  strange  affair  to  be  an  emigrant, 
as  I  hope  you  shall  see  in  a  future  work.  I  wonder 
if  this  will  be  legible;  my  present  station  on  the  wagon 
roof,  though  airy  compared  to  the  cars,  is  both  dirty 
and  insecure.  I  can  see  the  track  straight  before  and 
straight  behind  me  to  either  horizon.  Peace  of  mind 
I  enjoy  with  extreme  serenity;  I  am  doing  right;  I  know 
no  one  will  think  so;  and  don't  care.  My  body,  how- 
ever, is  all  to  whistles;  I  don't  eat;  but,  man,  I  can 
sleep.  The  car  in  front  of  mine  is  chock  full  of  Chinese. 

Monday. — What  it  is  to  be  ill  in  an  emigrant  train  let 
those  declare  who  know.  I  slept  none  till  late  in  the 
morning,  overcome  with  laudanum,  of  which  I  had  luck- 
ily a  little  bottle.  All  to-day  I  have  eaten  nothing,  and 
only  drunk  two  cups  of  tea,  for  each  of  which,  on  the 
pretext  that  the  one  was  breakfast,  and  the  other  dinner, 
I  was  charged  fifty  cents.  Our  journey  is  through 
ghostly  deserts,  sage-brush  and  alkali,  and  rocks,  without 
form  or  colour,  a  sad  corner  of  the  world.  I  confess  I 
am  not  jolly,  but  mighty  calm,  in  my  distresses.  My 
illness  is  a  subject  of  great  mirth  to  some  of  my  fellow 
travellers,  and  I  smile  rather  sickly  at  their  jests. 

We  are  going  along  Bitter  Creek  just  now,  a  place 
infamous  in  the  history  of  emigration,  a  place  I  shall 
remember  myself  among  the  blackest.  I  hope  I  may 
get  this  posted  at  Ogden,  Utah. 

R  L.  S. 


Mi.  29]      EGBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON  505 

I>Et.  29] 

To. SIDNEY   COLVIN 
[A  DAY  IN  ms  LIFE] 

608  BUSH  STREET,  SAN  FRANCISCO, 

[January  10,  1880]. 
My  dear  Colvin, — 

This  is  a  circular  letter  to  tell  my  estate  fully.  You 
have  no  right  to  it,  being  the  worst  of  correspondents; 
but  I  wish  to  efface  the  impression  of  my  last,  so  to 
you  it  goes. 

Any  time  between  eight  and  half-past  nine  in  the 
morning,  a  slender  gentleman  in  an  ulster,  with  a  vol- 
ume buttoned  into  the  breast  of  it,  may  be  observed 
leaving  No.  608  Bush  and  descending  Powell  with  an 
active  step.  The  gentleman  is  R.  L.  S. ;  the  volume 
relates  to  Benjamin  Franklin,  on  whom  he  meditates  one 
of  his  charming  essays.  He  descends  Powell,  crosses 
Market,  and  descends  in  Sixth  on  a  branch  of  the  orig- 
inal Pine  Street  Coffee  House,  no  less;  I  believe  he 
would  be  capable  of  going  to  the  original  itself,  if  he 
could  only  find  it.  In  the  branch  he  seats  himself  at  a 
table  covered  with  waxcloth,  and  a  pampered  menial,  of 
High-Dutch  extraction  and,  indeed,  as  yet  only  partially 
extracted,  lays  before  him  a  cup  of  coffee,  a  roll,  and  a 
pat  of  butter,  all,  to  quote  the  deity,  very  good.  A 
while  ago,  and  R.  L.  S.  used  to  find  the  supply  of  butter 
insufficient ;  but  he  has  now  learned  the  art  to  exactitude, 
and  butter  and  roll  expire  at  the  same  moment.  For  this 
refection  he  pays  ten  cents,  or  fivepence  sterling  (£0.  Os. 
5d.). 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  inhabitants  of  Bush  Street 
observe  the  same  slender  gentleman  armed,  like  George 
Washington,  with  his  little  hatchet,  splitting  kindling,  and 
breaking  coal  for  his  fire.  He  does  this  quasi-publicly 
upon  the  window-sill;  but  this  is  not  to  be  attributed  to 
any  love  of  notoriety,  though  he  is  indeed  vain  of  his 
prowess  with  the  hatchet  (which  he  persists  in  calling 
an  axe),  and  daily  surprised  at  the  perpetuation  of  his 
fingers.  The  reason  is  this:  that  the  sill  is  a  strong, 
supporting  beam,  and  that  blows  of  the  same  emphasis 
in  other  parts  of  his  room  might  knock  the  entire  shanty 


506  EGBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON      [.Et.  29 

into  hell.  Thenceforth,  for  from  three  to  four,  hoiirs,  he 
is  engaged  darkly  with  an  inkbottle.  Yet  he  is  not 
blacking  his  boots,  for  the  only  pair  that  he  possesses 
are  innocent  of  lustre  and  wear  the  natural  hue  of  the 
material  turned  up  with  caked  and  venerable  slush.  The 
youngest  child  of  his  landlady  remarks  several  times  a 
day,  as  this  strange  occupant  enters  or  quits  the  house, 
"Cere's  de  author."  Can  it  be  that  this  bright-haired 
innocent  has  found  the  true  clue  to  the  mystery?  The 
being  in  question  is,  at  least,  poor  enough  to  belong  to 
that  honourable  craft. 

His  next  appearance  is  at  the  restaurant  of  one  Dona- 
dieu,  in  Bush  Street,  between  Dupont  and  Kearney, 
where  a  copious  meal,  half  a  bottle  of  wine,  coffee  and 
brandy  may  be  procured  for  the  sum  of  four  bits,  alias 
fifty  cents,  -£0.  2s.  2d.  sterling.  The  wine  is  put  down 
in  a  whole  bottleful,  and  it  is  strange  and  painful  to 
observe  the  greed  with  which  the  gentleman  in  question 
seeks  to  secure  the  last  drop  of  his  allotted  half,  and 
the  scrupulousness  with  which  he  seeks  to  avoid  taking 
the  first  drop  of  the  other.  This  is  partly  explained  by 
the  fact  that  if  he  were  to  go  over  the  mark — bang 
would  go  a  tenpence.  He  is  again  armed  with  a  book, 
but  his  best  friends  will  learn  with  pain  that  he  seems 
at  this  hour  to  have  deserted  the  more  serious  studies 
of  the  morning.  When  last  observed,  he  was  studying 
with  apparent  zest  the  exploits  of  one  Rocambole  by  the 
late  Vicomte  Ponson  du  Terrail.  This  work,  originally 
of  prodigious  dimensions,  he  had  cut  into  liths  or  thick- 
nesses, apparently  for  convenience  of  carriage. 

Then  the  being  walks,  where  is  not  certain.  But  by 
about  half-past  four  a  light  beams  from  the  windows  of 
608  Bush,  and  he  may  be  observed  sometimes  engaged 
in  correspondence,  sometimes  once  again  plunged  in  the 
mysterious  rites  of  the  forenoon.  About  six  he  returns 
to  the  Branch  Original,  where  he  once  more  imbrues 
himself  to  the  worth  of  fivepence  in  coffee  and  roll.  The 
evening  is  devoted  to  writing  and  reading,  and  by  eleven 
or  half-past  darkness  closes  over  this  weird  and  truculent 
existence. 

As  for  coin,  you  see  I  don't  spend  much,  only  you  and 
Henley  both  seem  to  think  my  work  rather  bosh  nowa- 


JEc.  29]      ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSOX  507 

days,  and  I  do  want  to  make  as  much  as  I  was  making, 
that  is  £200;  if  I  can  do  that,  I  can  swim:  last  year, 
with  my  ill-health  I  touched  only  £109,  that  would  not 
do,  I  could  not  fight  it  through  on  that;  but  on  £200,  as 
I  say,  I  am  good  for  the  world,  and  can  even  in  this  quiet 
way  save  a  little,  and  that  I  must  do.  The  worst  is 
my  health;  it  is  suspected  I  had  an  ague  chill  yesterday; 
I  shall  know  by  to-morrow,  and  you  know  if  I  am  to  be 
laid  down  with  ague  the  game  is  pretty  well  lost.  But  I 
don't  know  ;  I  managed  to  write  a  good  deal  down  in 
Monterey,  when  I  was  pretty  sickly  most  of  the  time, 
and,  by  God,  I'll  try,  ague  and  all.  I  have  to  ask  you 
frankly,  when  you  write,  to  give  me  any  good  news  you 
can,  and  chat  a  little,  but  just  in  the  meantime,  give 
me  no  bad.  If  I  could  get  "Thoreau,"  Emigrant,  and 
Vendetta  all  finished  and  out  of  my  hand,  I  should  feel 
like  a  man  who  had  made  half  a  year's  income  in  a 
half  year;  but  until  the  last  two  are  finished,  you  see, 
they  don't  fairly  count. 

I  am  afraid  I  bore  you  sadly  with  this  perpetual  talk 
about  my  affairs  ;  I  will  try  and  stow  it  ;  but  you  see,  it 
touches  me  nearly.  I'm  the  miser  in  earnest  now:  last 
night,  when  I  felt  so  ill,  the  supposed  ague  chill,  it 
seemed  strange  not  to  be  able  to  afford  a  drink.  I  would 
have  walked  half  a  mile,  tired  as  I  felt,  for  a  brandy  and 
soda.  —  Ever  yours, 

R.  L.   S. 


.  29] 

To  EDMUND  GOSSE 
[A  "FRIENDLY  GAME"  WITH  DEATH] 

«,        SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL., 

April  16  [1880]. 
My  dear  Gosse,  — 

You  have  not  answered  my  last;  and  I  know  you  will 
repent  when  you  hear  how  near  I  have  been  to  another 
world.  For  about  six  weeks  I  have  been  in  utter  doubt; 
it  was  a  toss-up  for  life  or  death  all  that  time;  but  I 
won  the  toss,  sir,  and  Hades  went  off  once  more  dis- 
comfited. This  is  not  the  first  time,  nor  will  it  be  the 
last,  that  I  have  a  friendly  game  with  that  gentleman. 


508  ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON      [>Et.  29 

I  know  he  will  end  by  cleaning  me  out;  but  the  rogue 
is  insidious,  and  the  habit  of  that  sort  of  gambling  seems 
to  be  a  part  of  my  nature;  it  was,  I  suspect,  too  much 
indulged  in  youth;  break  your  children  of  this  tendency, 
my  dear  Gosse,  from  the  first.  It  is,  when  once  formed, 
a  habit  more  fatal  than  opium — I  speak,  as  St.  Paul  says, 
like  a  fool.  I  have  been  very  very  sick;  on  the  verge 
of  a  galloping  consumption,  cold  sweats,  prostrating  at- 
tacks of  cough,  sinking  "fits  in  which  I  lost  the  power  of 
speech,  fever,  and  all  the  ugliest  circumstances  of  the 
disease;  and  I  have  cause  to  bless  God,  my  wife  that  is 
to  be,  and  one  Dr.  Bamford  (a  name  the  Muse  repels), 
that  I  have  come  out  of  all  this,  and  got  my  feet  once 
more  upon  a  little  hilltop,  with  a  fair  prospect  of  life 
and  some  new  desire  of  living.  Yet  I  did  not  wish  to 
die,  neither;  only  I  felt  unable  to  go  on  farther  with  that 
rough  horseplay  of  human  life:  a  man  must  be  pretty 
well  to  take  the  business  in  good  part.  Yet  I  felt  all  the 
time  that  I  had  done  nothing  to  entitle  me  to  an  hon- 
ourable discharge;  that  I  had  taken  up  many  obligations 
and  begun  many  friendships  which  I  had  no  right  to  put 
away  from  me;  and  that  for  me  to  die  was  to  play  the 
cur  and  slinking  sybarite,  and  desert  the  colours  on  the 
eve  of  the  decisive  fight.  Of  course  I  have  done  no  work 
for  I  do  not  know  how  long;  and  here  you  can  triumph. 
I  have  been  reduced  to  writing  verses  for  amusement.  A 
fact.  The  whirligig  of  time  brings  in  its  revenges,  after 
all.  But ,  I'll  have  them  buried  with  me,  I  think,  for  I 
have  not  the  heart  to  burn  them  while  I  live.  Do  write. 
I  shall  go  to  the  mountains  as  soon  as  the  weather  clears ; 
on  the  way  thither,  I  marry  myself;  then  I  set  up  my 
family  altar  among  the  pinewoods,  3000  feet,  sir,  from 
the  disputatious  sea. — I  am,  dear  Weg,  most  truly  yours, 

R.  L.  S. 


^Et.  30]      ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON  509 

[>Et.  30] 

To  W.  E.  HENLEY 
["TREASURE  ISLAND"] 

BRAEMAR,  August,  1881. 
My  d-ear  Henley, — 

Of  course  I  am  a  rogue.  Why,  Lord,  it's  known,  man; 
but  you  should  remember  I  have  had  a  "horrid  cold.  Now 
I'm  better,  I  think;  and  see  here — nobody,  not  you,  nor 
Lang,  nor  the  devil,  will  hurry  me  with  our  crawlers.* 
They  are  coming.  Four  of  them  are  as  good  as  done,  and 
the  rest  will  come  when  ripe;  but  I  am  now  on  another 
lay  for  the  moment,  purely  owing  to  Lloyd,  this  one;  but 
I  believe  there's  more  coin  in  it  than  in  any  amount  of 
crawlers :  now,  see  here,  "The  Sea-Cook,  or  Treasure 
Island:  A  Story  for  Boys." 

If  this  don't  fetch  the  kids,  why,  they  have  gone  rot- 
ten since  my  day.  Will  you  be  surprised  to  learn  that  it 
is  about  Buccaneers,  that  it  begins  in  the  Admiral  Ben- 
bow  public-house  on  Devon  coast,  that  it's  all  about  a 
map,  and  a  treasure,  and  a  mutiny,  and  a  derelict  ship, 
and  a  current,  and  a  fine  old  Squire  Trelawney  (the  real 
Tre,  purged  of  literature  and  sin,  to  suit  the  infant 
mind),  and  a  doctor,  and  another  doctor,  and  a  sea-cook 
with  one  leg,  and  a  sea-song  with  the  chorus  "Yo-ho-ho 
and  a  bottle  of  rum"  (at  the  third  Ho  you  heave  at  the 
capstan  bars),  which  is  a  real  buccaneer's  song,  only 
known  to  the  crew  of  the  late  Captain  Flint  (died  of 
rum  at  Key  West,  much  regretted,  friends  will  please 
accept  this  intimation) ;  and  lastly,  would  you  be  sur- 
prised to  hear,  in  this  connection,  the  name  of  Routledge? 
That's  the  kind  of  man  I  am,  blast  your  eyes.  Two  chap- 
ters are  written,  and  have  been  tried  on  Lloyd  with  great 
success;  the  trouble  is  to  work  it  off  without  oaths.  Buc- 
caneers without  oaths — bricks  without  straw.  But  youth 
and  the  fond  parent  have  to  be  consulted. 

And  now  look  here — this  is  next  day — and  three  chap- 
ters are  written  and  read.  (Chapter  I.  The  Old  Seadog 
at  the  Admiral  Benbow.  Chapter  II.  Black  Dog  appears 
and  disappears.  Chapter  III.  The  Black  Spot.)  All  now 

*  Tales  of  horror. 


510  EGBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON      |>Et.  32 

heard  by  Lloyd,  F.,  and  my-  father  and  mother,  with  high 
approval.  It's  quite  silly  and  horrid  fun,  and  what  I 
want  is  the  best  book  about  the  Buccaneers  that  can  be 
had — the  latter  B's  above  all,  Blackbeard  and  sich,  and 
get  Nutt  or  Bain  to  send  it  skimming  by  the  fastest  post. 
And  now  I  know  you'll  write  to  me;  for  "The  Sea-Cook's" 
sake. 

Your  "Admiral  Guinea"  is  curiously  near  my  line,  but 
of  course  I'm  fooling;  and  your  admiral  sounds  like  a 
shublime  gent.  Stick  to  him  like  wax — he'll  do.  My 
Trelawney  is,  as  I  indicate,  several  thousand  sea-miles  off 
the  lie  of  the  original  or  your  Admiral  Guinea;  and  be- 
sides, I  have  no  more  about  him  yet  but  one  mention  of 
his  name,  and  I  think  it  likely  he  may  turn  yet  farther 
from  the  model  in  the  course  of  handling.  A  chapter  a 
day  I  mean  to  do ;  they  are  short ;  and  perhaps  in  a  month 
"The  Sea-Cook"  may  to  Routledge  go,  yo-ho-ho  and  a 
bottle  of  rum!  My  Trelawney  has  a  strong  dash  of  Lan- 
dor,  as  I  see  him,  from  here.  No  women  in  the  story, 
Lloyd's  orders;  and  who  so  blithe  to  obey?  It's  awful 
fun,  boys'  stories;  you  just  indulge  the  pleasure  of  your 
heart,  that's  all;  no  trouble,  no  strain.  The  only  stiff 
thing-  is  to  get  it  ended — that  I  don't  see,  but  I  look  to 
a  volcano.  O  sweet,  O  generous,  O  human  toils!  You 
would  like  my  blind  beggar  in  Chapter  III.,  I  believe; 
no  writing,  just  drive  along  as  the  words  «ome  and  the 
pen  will  scratch! 

R.  L.  S., 

Author  of  Boys'  Stories. 
I>Et.  32] 

To  R.  A.  M.  STEVENSON 
["THERE  is  BUT  ONE  ART — TO  OMIT"] 

LA  SOLITUDE,  HYERES-LES-PALMIERS, 

[October,  1883]. 
My  dear  Bob, — 

Yes,  I  got  both  your  letters  at  Lyons,  but  have  been 
since  then  decading  in  several  steps.  Toothache;  fever; 
Ferrier's  death;  lung.  Now  it  is  decided  I  am  to  leave 
to-morrow,  penniless,  for  Nice  to  see  Dr.  Williams. 

I  was  much  struck  by  your  last.  I  have  written  a 
breathless  note  on  Realism  for  Henley;  a  fifth  part  of  the 


^Et  32]      ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON  511 

subject  hurriedly  touched,  which  will  show  you  how  my 
thoughts  are  driving.  You  are  now  at  last  beginning  to 
think  upon  the  problems  of  executive,  plastic  art,  for  you 
are  now  for  the  first  time  attacking  them.  Hitherto  you 
have  spoken  and  thought  of  two  things — technique  and 
the  ars  aptium,  or  common  background  of  all  arts.  Studio 
work  is  the  real  touch.  That^is  the  genial  error  of  the 
present  French  teaching.  Realism  I  regard  as  a  mere 
question  of  method.  The  "brown  foreground,"  "old 
mastery,"  and  the  like,  ranking  with  villanelles,  as  tech- 
nical sports  and  pastimes.  Real  art,  whether  ideal  or 
realistic,  addresses  precisely  the  same  feeling,  and  seeks 
the  same  qualities — significance  or  charm.  And  the  same 
— very  same — inspiration  is  only  methodically  differenti- 
ated according  as  the  artist  is  an  arrant  realist  or  an 
arrant  idealist.  Each,  by  his  own  method,  seeks  to  save 
and  perpetuate  the  same  significance  or  charm;  the  one 
by  suppressing,  the  other  by  forcing,  detail.  All  other 
idealism  is  the  brown  foreground  over  again,  and  hence 
only  art  in  the  sense  of  a  game,  like  cup  and  ball.  All 
other  realism  is  not  art  at  all — but  not  at  all.  It  is, 
then,  an  insincere  and  showy  handicraft. 

Were  you  to  re-read  some  Balzac,  as  I  have  been  doing, 
it  would  greatly  help  to  clear  your  eyes.  He  was  a  man 
who  never  found  his  method.  An  inarticulate  Shake- 
speare, smothered  under  forcible-feeble  detail.  It  is  as- 
tounding to  the  riper  mind  how  bad  he  is,  how  feeble, 
how  untrue,  how  tedious;  and,  of  course,  when  he  sur- 
rendered to  his  temperament,  how  good  and  powerful. 
And  yet  never  plain  nor  clear.  He  could  not  consent  to 
be  dull,  and  thus  became  so.  He  would  leave  nothing 
undeveloped,  and  thus  drowned  out  of  sight  of  land  amid 
the  multitude  of  crying  and  incongruous  details.  There 
is  but  one  art — to  omit!  O  if  I  knew  how  to  omit,  I 
would  ask  no  other  knowledge.  A  man  who  knew  how 
to  omit  would  make  an  Iliad  of  a  daily  paper. 

Your  definition  of  seeing  is  quite  right.  It  is  the  first 
part  of  omission  to  be  partly  blind.  Artistic  sight  is 
judicious  blindness.  Sam  Bough  must  have  been  a  jolly 
blind  old  boy.  He  would  turn  a  corner,  look  for  one-half 
or  quarter  minute,  and  then  say,  "This'll  do,  lad."  Down 
he  sat,  there  and  then,  with  whole  artistic  plan,  scheme 


512  EOBEKT    LOUIS    STEVENSON      [^Et.  32 

of  colour,  and  the  like,  and  began  by  laying  a  founda- 
tion of '  powerful  and  seemingly  incongruous  colour  on 
the  block.  He  saw,  not  the  scene,  but  the  water-colour 
sketch.  Every  artist  by  sixty  should  so  behold  nature. 
Where  does  he  learn  that?  In  the  studio,  I  swear.  He 
goes  to  nature  for  facts,  relations,  values — material;  as  a 
man,  before  writing  a  historical  novel,  reads  up  memoirs. 
But  it  is  not  by  reading  memoirs  that  he  has  learned  the 
selective  criterion.  He  has  learned  that  in  the  practice 
of  his  art;  and  he  will  never  learn  it  well,  but  when  dis- 
engaged from  the  ardent  struggle  of  immediate  repre- 
sentations, of  realistic  and  ex  facto  art.  He  learns  it  in 
the  crystallisation  of  day-dreams;  in  changing,  not  in 
copying,  fact;  in  the  pursuit  of  the  ideal,  not  in  the 
study  of  nature.  These  temples  of  art  are,  as  you  say, 
inaccessible  to  the  realistic  climber.  It  is  not  by  looking 
at  the  sea  that  you  get 

"The  multitudinous,  seas  incarnadine," 

nor  by  looking  at  Mont  Blanc  that  you  find 

"And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars." 

A  kind  of  ardour  of  the  blood  is  the  mother  of  all  this; 
and  according  as  this  ardour  is  swayed  by  knowledge  and 
seconded  by  craft,  the  art  expression  flows  clear,  and  sig- 
nificance and  charm,  like  a  moon  rising,  are  born  above 
the  barren  juggle  of  mere  symbols. 

The  painter  must  study  more  from  nature  than  the 
man  of  words.  But  why?  Because  literature  deals  with 
men's  business  and  passions  which,  in  the  game  of  life, 
we  are  irresistibly  obliged  to  study;  but  painting  with 
relations  of  light,  and  colour,  and  significances,  and  form, 
which,  from  the  immemorial  habit  of  the  race,  we  pass 
over  with  an  unregardful  eye.  Hence  this  crouching 
upon  camp-stools,  and  these  crusts.  But  neither  one  nor 
other  is  a  part  of  art,  only  preliminary  studies. 

I  want  you  to  help  me  to  get  people  to  understand  that 
realism  is  a  method,  and  only  methodic  in  its  conse- 
quences; when  the  realist  is  an  artist,  that  is,  and  sup- 
posing the  idealist  with  whom  you  compare  him  to  be 


J2t.  34]      EOBEET   LOUIS    STEVENSON  513 

anything  but  a  farceur  and  a  dilettante.  The  two  schools 
of  working  do,  and  should,  lead  to  the  choice  of  different 
subjects.  But  that  is  a  consequence,  not  a  cause.  See 
my  chaotic  note,  which  will  appear,  I  fancy,  in  Novem- 
ber in  Henley's  sheet. 

Poor  Ferrier,  it  bust  me  horrid.     He  was,  after  you, 
the  oldest  of  my  friends. 

I  am  now  very  tired,  and  will  go  to  bed  having  pre- 
lected freely.    Fanny  will  finish. 

K.  L.  S. 


.  34] 

To  WILLIAM  ARCHER 

[IN  REMONSTRANCE] 

SKERRYVORE,  BOURNEMOUTH,  October  28,  1885. 
Dear  Mr.  Archer,  — 

I  have  read  your  paper  with  my  customary  admiration  ; 
it  is  very  witty,  very  adroit;  it  contains  a  great  deal  that 
is  excellently  true  (particularly  the  parts  about  my  stories 
and  the  description  of  me  as  an  artist  in  life)  ;  but  you 
will  not  be  surprised  if  I  do  not  think  it  altogether  just. 
It  seems  to  me,  in  particular,  that  you  have  wilfully  read 
all  my  works  in  terms  of  my  earliest;  my  aim,  even  in 
style,  has  quite  changed  in  the  last  six  or  seven  years; 
and  this  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  noticed. 
Again,  your  first  remark  upon  the  affectation  of  the  italic 
names;  a  practice  only  followed  in  my  two  affected  little 
books  of  travel,  where  a  typographical  minauderie  of  the 
sort  appeared  to  me  in  character;  and  what  you  say  of 
it,  then,  is  quite  just.  But  why  should  you  forget  your- 
self and  use  these  same  italics  as  an  index  to  my  theology 
some  pages  further  on?  This  is  lightness  of  touch  in- 
deed; may  I  say,  it  is  almost  sharpness  of  practice? 

Excuse  these  remarks.  I  have  been  on  the  whole  much 
interested,  and  sometimes  amused.  Are  you  aware  that 
the  praiser  of  this  "brave  gymnasium"  has  not  seen  a 
canoe  nor  taken  a  long  walk  since  '79?  that  he  is  rarely 
out  of  the  house  nowadays,  and  carries  his  arm  in  a 
sling?  Can  y.ou  imagine  that  he  is  a  backslidden  com- 
munist, and  is  sure  he  will  go  to  hell  (if  there  be  such 
Oil  excellent  institution)  for  the  luxury  in  which  he  lives? 


514  EGBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON      [>Et.  34 

And  can  you  believe  that,  though  it  is  gaily  expressed, 
the1  thought  is  hag  and  skeleton  in  every  moment  of 
vacuity  or  depression  ?  Can  you  conceive  how  profoundly 
I  am  irritated  by  the  opposite  affectation  to  my  own, 
when  I  see  strong  men  and  rich  men  bleating  about  their 
sorrows  and  the  burthen  of  life,  in  a  world  full  of  "can- 
cerous paupers,"  and  poor  sick  children,  and  the  fatally 
bereaved,  ay,  and  down  even  to  such  happy  creatures  as 
myself,  who  has  yet  been  obliged  to  strip  himself,  one 
after  another,  of  all  the  pleasures  that  he  had  chosen  ex- 
cept smoking  (and  the  days  of  that  I  know  in  my  heart 
ought  to  be  over),  I  forgot  eating,  which  I  still  enjoy,  and 
who  sees  the  circle  of  impotence  closing  very  slowly  but 
quite  steadily  around  him?  In  my  view,  one  dank,  dis- 
pirited word  is  harmful,  a  crime  of  lese-humanite,  a 
piece  of  acquired  evil;  every  gay,  every  bright  word  or 
picture,  like  every  pleasant  air  of  music,  is  a  piece  of 
pleasure  set  afloat;  the  reader  catches  it,  and,  if  he  be 
healthy,  goes  on  his  way  rejoicing;  and  it  is  the  business 
of  art  so  to  send  him,  as  often  as  possible. 

For  what  you  say,  so  kindly,  so  prettily,  so  precisely, 
of  my  style,  I  must  in  particular  thank  you;  though  even 
here,  I  am  vexed  you  should  not  have  remarked  on  my 
attempted  change  of  manner:  seemingly  this  attempt  is 
still  quite  unsuccessful!  Well,  we  shall  fight  it  out  on 
this  line  if  it  takes  all  summer. 

And  now  for  my  last  word:  Mrs.  Stevenson  is  very 
anxious  that  you  should  see  me,  and  that  she  should  see 
you,  in  the  flesh.  If  you  at  all  share  in  these  views,  I 
am  a  fixture.  Write  or  telegraph  (giving  us  time,  how- 
ever, to  telegraph  in  reply,  lest  the  day  be  impossible), 
and  come  down  here  to  a  bed  and  a  dinner.  What  do 
you  say,  my  dear  critic?  I  shall  be  truly  pleased  to  see 
you;  and  to  explain  at  greater  length  what  I  mean  by 
saying  narrative  was  the  most  characteristic  mood  of 
literature,  on  which  point  I  have  great  hopes  I  shall  per- 
suade you. — Yours  truly, 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


.  34]      EOBEET    LOUIS    STEVENSON  515 

.  34] 


To  WILLIAM  ARCHER 

["A  TERRIBLE,  BUT  A  VERY  JOYOUS  AND  NOBLE  UNIVERSE"] 

SKERRYVORE,  BOURNEMOUTH,  November  1,  1885. 
Dear  Mr.  Archer,  — 

You  will  see  that  I  had  already  had  a  sight  of  your 
article  and  what  were  my  thoughts. 

One  thing  in  your  letter  puzzles  me.  Are  you,  too,  not 
in  the  witness-box?  And  if  you  are,  why  take  a  wilfully 
false  hypothesis?  If  you  knew  I  was  a  chronic  invalid, 
why  say  that  my  philosophy  was  unsuitable  to  such  a 
case?  My  call  for  facts  is  not  so  general  as  yours,  but 
an  essential  fact  should  not  be  put  the  other  way  about. 

The  fact  is,  consciously  or  not,  you  doubt  my  honesty; 
you  think  I  am  making  faces,  and  at  heart  disbelieve  my 
utterances.  And  this  I  am  disposed  to  think  must  spring 
from  your  not  having  had  enough  of  pain,  sorrow,  and 
trouble  in  your  existence.  It  is  easy  to  have  too  much; 
easy  also  or  possible  to  have  too  little;  enough  is  required 
that  a  man  may  appreciate  what  elements  of  consolation 
and  joy  there  are  in  everything  but  absolutely  over- 
powering physical  pain  or  disgrace,  and  how  in  almost  all 
circumstances  the  human  soul  can  play  a  fair  part.  You 
fear  life,  I  fancy,  on  the  principle  of  the  hand  of  little 
employment.  But  perhaps  my  hypothesis  is  as  unlike  the 
truth  as  the  one  you  chose.  Well,  if  it  be  so,  if  you  have 
had  trials,  sickness,  the  approach  of  death,  the  alienation 
of  friends,  poverty  at  the  heels,  and  have  not  felt  your 
soul  turn  round  upon  these  things  and  spurn  them  under 
—  you  must  be  very  differently  made  from  me,  and  I 
earnestly  believe  from  the  majority  of  men.  But  at  least 
you  are  in  the  right  to  wonder  and  complain. 

To  "say  all"?  Stay  here.  All  at  once?  That  would 
require  a  word  from  the  pen  of  Gargantua.  We  say  each 
particular  thing  as  it  comes  up,  and  "with  that  sort  of 
emphasis  that  for  the  time  there  seems  to  be  no  other." 
Words  will  not  otherwise  serve  us;  no,  nor  even  Shake- 
speare, who  could  not  have  put  As  You  Like  It  and  Timon 
into  one  without  ruinous  loss  both  of  emphasis  and  sub- 
stance. Is  it  quite  fair  then  to  keep  your  face  so  steadily 


S616  ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON      [^Et.  34 

on  my  most  light-hearted  works,  and  then  say  I  recognise 
no  evil?  Yet  in  the  paper  on  Burns,  for  instance,  I  show 
myself  alive  to  some  sorts  of  evil.  But  then,  perhaps, 
they  are  not  your  sorts. 

And  again:  to  "say  all?"  All:  yes.  Everything:  no. 
The  task  were  endless,  the  effect  nil.  But  my  all,  in  such 
a  vast  field  as  this  of  life,  is  what  interests  me,  what 
stands  out,  what  takes  on  itself  a  presence  for  my  imagi- 
nation or  makes  a  figure  in  that  little  tricky  abbreviation 
which  is  the  best  that  my  reason  can  conceive.  That  I 
must  treat,  or  I  shall  be  fooling  with  my  readers.  That, 
and  not  the  all  of  some  one  else. 

And  here  we  come  to  the  division:  not  only  do  I  be- 
lieve that  literature  should  give  joy,  but  I  see  a  universe, 
I  suppose,  eternally  different  from  yours;  a  solemn,  a 
terrible,  but  a  very  joyous  and  noble  universe,  where  suf- 
fering is  not  at  least  wantonly  inflicted,  though  it  falls 
with  dispassionate  partiality,  but  where  it  may  be  and 
generally  is  nobly  borne;  where,  above  all  (this  I  believe; 
probably  you  don't:  I  think  he  may,  with  cancer),  any 
brave  man  may  make  out  a  life  which  shall  be  happy  for 
himself,  and,  by  so  being,  beneficent  to  those  about  him. 
And  if  he  fails,  why  should  I  hear  him  weeping?  I  mean 
if  I  fail,  why  should  I  weep?  Why  should  you  hear  me? 
Then  to  me  morals,  the  conscience,  the  affections,  and 
the  passions  are,  I  will  own  frankly  and  sweepingly,  so 
infinitely  more  important  than  the  other  parts  of  life, 
that  I  conceive  men  rather  triflers  who  become  immersed 
in  the  latter;  and  I  will  always  think  the  man  who  keeps 
his  lip  stiff,  and  makes  "a  happy  fireside  clime,"  and  car- 
ries a  pleasant  face  about  to  friends  and  neighbors,  in- 
finitely greater  (in  the  abstract)  than  an  atrabilious 
Shakespeare  or  a  backbiting  Kant  or  Darwin.  No  offence 
to  any  of  these  gentlemen,  two  of  whom  probably  (one 
for  certain)  came  up  to  my  standard. 

And  now  enough  said;  it  were  hard  if  a  poor  man  could, 
not  criticise  another  without  having  so  much  ink  shed 
against  him.  But  I  shall  still  regret  you  should  hav'e 
written  on  an  hypothesis  you  knew  to  be  untenable,  and 
that  you  should  thus  have  made  your  paper,  for  those 
who  do  not  know  me,  essentially  unfair.  The  rich,  fox- 


At.  36]      KOBEET   LOUIS    STEVENSON  517 

hunting  squire  speaks  with  one  voice;  the  sick  man  of 
letters  with  another. — Yours  very  truly, 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON 
(Prometheus-Heine  in  minimis). 

P.S. — Here  I  go  again.  To  me,  the  medicine  bottles 
on  my  chimney  and  the  blood  on  my  handkerchief  are 
accidents;  they  do  not  colour  my  view  of  life,  as  you 
would  know,  I  think,  if  you  had  experience  of  sickness; 
they  do  not  exist  in  my  prospect;  I  would  as  soon  drag 
them  under  the  eyes  of  my  readers  as  I  would  mention 
a  pimple  I  might  chance  to  have  (saving  your  presence) 
on  my  posteriors.  What  does  it  prove?  what  does  it 
change?  it  has  not  hurt,  it  has  not  changed  me  in  any 
essential  part;  and  I  should  think  myself  a  trifler  and  in 
bad  taste  if  I  introduced  the  world  to  these  unimportant 
privacies. 

But,  again,  there  is  this  mountain-range  between  us — 
that  you  do  not  believe  me.  It  is  not  flattering,  but  the 
fault  is  probably  in  my  literary  art. 


36] 

To  HENRY  JAMES 
[LIFE  AT  SARANAC] 

SARANAC  LAKE,  1887. 
I  know  not  the  day;  but  the 
month  it  is  the  drear  Oc- 
tober by  the  ghoul-haunted 
woodland  of  Weir. 
M y  dear  Henry  James, — 

This  is  to  say,  First,,  the  voyage  was  a  huge  success. 
We  all  enjoyed  it  (bar  my  wife)  to  the  ground:  sixteen 
days  at  sea  with  a  cargo  of  hay,  matches,  stallions,  and 
monkeys,  and  in  a  ship  with  no  style  on,  and  plenty  of 
sailors  to  talk  to,  and  the  endless  pleasures  of  the  sea — 
the  romance  of  it,  the  sport  of  the  scratch  dinner  and  the 
smashing  crockery',  the  pleasure — an  endless  pleasure — 
of  balancing  to  the  swell :  well,  it's  over. 

Second,  I  had  a  fine  time,  rather  a  troubled  one,  at 
Newport  and  New  York;  saw  much  of  and  liked  hugely 


518  EGBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON      [zEt.  36 

the  Fairchilds,  St.  Gaudens  the  sculptor,  Gilder  of  the 
Century — just  saw  the  dear  Alexander — saw  a  lot  of  my 
old  and  admirable  friend  Will  Low,  whom  I  wish  you 
knew  and  appreciated — was  medallioned  by  St.  Gaudens, 
and  at  last  escaped  to 

Third,  Saranac  Lake,  where  we  now  are,  and  which  I 
believe  we  mean  to  like  and  pass  the  winter  at.  Our 
house — emphatically  "Baker's" — is  on  a  hill,  and  has  a 
sight  of  a  stream  turning  a  corner  in  the  valley — bless 
the  face  of  running  water! — and  sees  some  hills  too,  and 
the  paganly  prosaic  roofs  of  Saranac  itself;  the  Lake  it 
does  not  see,  nor  do  I  regret  that;  I  like  water  (fresh 
water  I  mean)  either  running  swiftly  among  stones,  or 
else  largely  qualified  with  whisky.  As  I  write,  the  sun 
(which  has  been  long  a  stranger)  shines  in  at  my  shoul- 
der; from  the  next  room,  the  bell  of  Lloyd's  typewriter 
makes  an  agreeable  music  as  it  patters  off  (at  a  rate  which 
astonishes  this  experienced  novelist)  the  early  chapters 
of  a  humorous  romance;  from  still  further  off — the  walls 
of  Baker's  are  neither  ancient  nor  massive — rumours  of 
Valentine  about  the  kitchen  stove  come  to  my  ears;  of 
my  mother  and  Fanny  I  hear  nothing,  for  the  excellent 
reason  that  they  have  gone  sparking  off,  one  to  Niagara, 
one  to  Indianapolis.  People  complain  that  I  never  give 
news  in  my  letters.  I  have  wiped  out  that  reproach. 

But  now,  Fourth,  I  have  seen  the  article;  and  it  may 
he  from  natural  partiality,  I  think  it  the  best  you  have 
written.  O — I  remember  the  Gautier,  which  was  an  ex- 
cellent performance;  and  the  Balzac,  which  was  good; 
and  the  Daudet,  over  which  I  licked  my  chops;  but  the 
E.  L.  S.  is  better  yet.  It  is  so  humorous,  and  it  hits  my 
little  frailties  with  so  neat  (and  so  friendly)  a  touch; 
and  Alan  is  the  occasion  for  so  much  happy  talk,  and  the 
quarrel  is  so  generously  praised.  I  read  it  twice,  though 
it  was  only  some  hours  in  my  possession;  and  Low,  who 
got  it  for  me  from  the  Century,  sat  up  to  finish  it  ere 
he  returned  it;  and,  sir,  we  were  all  delighted.  Here  is 
the  paper  out,  nor  will  anything,  not  even  friendship,  not 
even  gratitude  for  the  article,  induce  me  to  begin  a  sec- 
ond sheet ;  so  here  with  the  kindest  remembrances  and  the 
warmest  good  wishes,  I  remain,  yours  affectionately, 

R.  L.  S. 


Mt.  37]      ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON  519 

37] 


To  WILLIAM  ARCHER 
["CUTTING  THE  FLESH  OFF"  STORIES] 

[SARANAC  LAKE,  February,  1888.] 
My  dear  Archer,  — 

Pretty  sick  in  bed;  but  necessary  to  protest  and  con- 
tinue your  education. 

Why  was  Jenkin  an  amateur  in  my  eyes?  You  think 
because  not  amusing  (I  think  he  often  was  amusing). 
The  reason  is  this:  I  never,  or  almost  never,  saw  two 
pages  of  his  work  that  I  could  not  have  put  in  one  with- 
out the  smallest  loss  of  material.  That  is  the  only  test  I 
know  of  writing.  If  there  is  anywhere  a  thing  said  in 
two  sentences  that  could  have  been  as  clearly  and  as  en- 
gagingly and  as  forcibly  said  in  one,  then  it's  amateur 
work.  Then  you  will  bring  me  up  with  old  Dumas.  Nay, 
the  object  of  a  story  is  to  be  long,  to  fill  up  hours;  the 
story-teller's  art  of  writing  is  to  water  out  by  continual 
invention,  historical  and  technical,  and  yet  not  seem  to 
water;  seem  on  the  other  hand  to  practise  that  same  wit 
of  conspicuous  and  declaratory  condensation  which  is  the 
proper  art  of  writing.  That  is  one  thing  in  which  my 
stories  fail  :  I  am  always  cutting  the  flesh  off  their  bones. 

I  would  rise  from  the  dead  to  preach! 

Hope  all  well.  I  think  my  wife  better,  but  she's  not 
allowed  to  write;  and  this  (only  wrung  from  me  by  de- 
sire to  Boss  and  Parsonise  and  Dominate,  strong  in  sick- 
ness) is  my  first  letter  for  days,  and  will  likely  be  my 
last  for  many  more.  Not-  blame  my  wife  for  her  silence  : 
doctor's  orders.  All  much  interested  by  your  last,  and 
fragment  from  brother,  and  anecdotes  of  Tomarcher.  — 
The  sick  but  still  Moral 

R.  L.  S. 

Tell  Shaw  to  hurry  up:  I  want  another. 


520  KOBEET   LOUIS    STEVENSON      [^Et.  38 

[Mt.  38] 

To  THOMAS  ARCHER 

[TO  A  BOY] 

TAUTIRA,  ISLAND  OF  TAHITI  [November,  1888]. 
Dear  TomarcTier, — 

This  is  a  pretty  state  of  things!  seven  o'clock  and  no 
word  of  breakfast!  And  I  was  awake  a  good  deal  last 
night,  for  it  was  full  moon,  and  they  had  made  a  great 
fire  of  cocoanut  husks  down  by  the  sea,  and  as  we  have 
no  blinds  or  shutters,  this  kept  my  room  very  bright.  And 
then  the  rats  had  a  wedding  or  a  school-feast  under  my 
bed.  And  then  I  woke  early,  and  I  have  nothing  to  read 
except  Virgil's  ^Eneid,  which  is  not  good  fun  on  an  empty 
stomach,  and  a  Latin  dictionary,  which  is  good  for 
naught,  and  by  some  humorous  accident,  your  dear  papa's 
article  on  S'kerryvore.  And  I  read  the  whole  of  that,  and 
very  impudent  it  is,  but  you  must  not  tell  your  dear  papa 
I  said  so,  or  it  might  come  to  a  battle  in  which  you  might 
lose  either  a  dear  papa  or  a  valued  correspondent,  or  both, 
which  would  be  prodigal.  And  still  no  breakfast;  so  I 
said  "Let's  write  to  Tomarcher." 

This  is  a  much  better  place  for  children  than  any  I 
have  hitherto  seen  in  these  seas.  The  girls  (and  some- 
times the  boys)  play  a  very  elaborate  kind  of  hopscotch. 
The  boys  play  horses  exactly  as  we  do  in  Europe;  and 
have  very  good  fun  on  stilts  trying  to  knock  each  other 
down,  in  which  they  do  not  often  succeed.  The  children 
of  all  ages  go  to  church  and  are  allowed  to  do  what  they 
please,  running  about  the  aisles,  rolling  balls,  stealing 
mamma's  bonnet  and  publicly  sitting  on  it,  and  at  last 
going  to  sleep  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  I  forgot  to  say 
that  the  whips  to  play  horses,  and  the  balls  to  roll  about 
the  church — at  least  I  never  saw  them  used  elsewhere — 
grow  ready-made  on  trees;  which  is  rough  on  toy-shops. 
The  whips  are  so  good  that  I  wanted  to  play  horses  my- 
self ;  but  no  such  luck !  my  hair  is  grey,  and  I  am  a  great, 
big,  ugly  man.  The  balls  are  rather  hard,  but  very  light 
and  quite  round.  When  you  grow  up  and  become  of- 
fensively rich,  you  can  charter  a  ship  in  the  port  of  Lon- 
don, and  have  it  come  back  to  you  entirely  loaded  with 
these  balls;  when  you  could  satisfy  your  mind  as  to  their 


.Et.  38]      EGBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON  521 

character,  and  give  them  away  when  done  with  to  your 
uncles  and  aunts.  But  what  I  really  wanted  to  tell  you 
was  this :  besides  the  tree-top  toys  (Hush-a-by,  toy-shop, 
on  the  tree- top!),  I  have  seen  some  real  made  toys,  the 
first  hitherto  observed  in  the  South  Seas. 

This  was  how.  You  are  to  imagine  a  four-wheeled  gig; 
one  horse;  in  the  front  seat  two  Tahiti  natives,  in  their 
Sunday  clothes,  blue  coat,  white  shirt,  kilt  (a  little  longer 
than  the  Scotch)  of  a  blue  stuff  with  big  white  or  yellow 
flowers,  legs  and  feet  bare;  in  the  back  seat  me  and  my 
wife,  who  is  a  friend  of  yours;  under  our  feet,  plenty  of 
lunch  and  things :  among  us  a  great  deal  of  fun  in  broken 
Tahitian,  one  of  the  natives,  the  sub-chief  of  the  village, 
being  a  great  ally  of  mine.  Indeed  we  have  exchanged 
names ;  so  that  he  is  now  called  Rui,  the  nearest  they  can 
come  to  Louis,  for  they  have  no  I  and  no  s  in  their  lan- 
guage. Rui  is  six  feet  three  in  his  stockings,  and  a  mag- 
nificent man.  We  all  have  straw  hats,  for  the  sun  is 
strong.  We  drive  between  the  sea,  which  makes  a  great 
noise,  and  the  mountains ;  the  road  is  cut  through  a  forest 
mostly  of  fruit  trees,  the  very  creepers,  which  take  the 
place  of  our  ivy,  heavy  with  a  great  and  delicious  fruit, 
bigger  than  your  head  and  far  nicer,  called  Barbedine. 
Presently  we  came  to  a  house  in  a  pretty  garden,  quite 
by  itself,  very  nicely  kept,  the  doors  and  windows  open, 
no  one  about,  and  no  noise  but  that  of  the  sea.  It  looked 
like  a  house  in  a  fairy  tale,  and  just  beyond  we  must  ford 
a  river,  and  there  we  saw  the  inhabitants.  Just  in  the 
mouth  of  the  river,  where  it  met  the  sea  waves,  they  were 
ducking  and  bathing  and  screaming  together  like  a  covey 
of  birds :  seven  or  eight  little  naked  brown  boys  and  girls 
as  happy  as  the  day  was  long;  and  on  the  banks  of  the 
stream  beside  them,  real  toys — toy  ships,  full  rigged,  and  , 
with  their  sails  set,  though  they  were  lying  in  the  dust 
on  their  beam  ends.  And  then  I  knew  for  sure  they  were 
all  children  in  a  fairy  story,  living  alone  together  in  that 
lonely  house  with  the  only  toys  in  all  the  island;  and  that 
I  had  myself  driven,  in  my  four-wheeled  gig,  into  a  cor- 
ner of  the  fairy  story,  and  the  question  was,  should  I  get 
out  again?  But  it  was  all  right;  I  guess  only  one  of  the 
wheels  of  the  gig  had  got  into  thev  fairy  story;  and  the 
next  jolt  the  whole  thing  vanished;  and  we  drove  on  in 


522  EGBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON      [^Et.  38 

our  seaside  forest  as  before,  and  I  have  the  honour  to  be 
Tomarcher's  valued  correspondent,  TERIITERA,  which 
he  was  previously  known  as 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


38] 

To  SIDNEY  COLVIN 

[VISIT   TO   MOLOKAI;    FATHER   DAMIEN] 

[HONOLULU,  May  or  June,  1889]. 
My  dear  Colvin, — 

I  am  just  home  after  twelve  days'  journey  to  Molokai, 
seven  of  them  at  the  leper  settlement,  where  I  can  only 
say  that  the  sight  of  so  much  courage,  cheerfulness,  and 
devotion  strung  me  too  high  to  mind  the  infinite  pity  and 
horror  of  the  sights.  I  used  to  ride  over  from  Kalawao 
to  Kalaupapa  (about  three  miles  across  the  promontory, 
the  cliff-wall,  ivied  with  forest  and  yet  inaccessible  from 
steepness,  on  my  left),  go  to  the  sister's  home,  which  is  a 
miracle  of  neatness,  play  a  game  of  croquet  with  seven 
leper  girls  (90°  in  the  shade),  get  a  little  old-maid  meal 
served  me  by  the  sisters,  and  ride  home  again,  tired 
enough,  but  not  too  tired.  The  girls  have  all  dolls,  and 
love  dressing  them.  You  who  know  so  many  ladies  deli- 
cately clad,  and  they  who  know  so  many  dressmakers, 
please  make  it  known  it  would  be  an  acceptable  gift  to 
send  scraps  for  doll  dressmaking  to  the  Reverend  Sister 
Maryanne,  Bishop  Home,  Kalaupapa  Molokai,  Hawaiian 
Islands. 

I  have  seen  sights  that  cannot  be  told,  and  heard  stories 
that  cannot  be  repeated:  yet  I  never  admired  my  poor 
race  so  much,  nor  (strange  as  it  may  seem)  loved  life 
more  than  in  the  settlement.  A  horror  of  moral  beauty 
broods  over  the  place:  that's  like  bad  Victor  Hugo,  but 
it  is  the  only  way  I  can  express  the  sense  that  lived  with 
me  all  these  days.  And  this  even  though  it  was  in  great 
part  Catholic,  and  my  sympathies  flew  never  with  so  much 
difficulty  as  towards  Catholic  virtues.  The  pass-book  kept 
with  heaven  stirs  me  to  anger  and  laughter.  One  of  the 
sisters  calls  the  place  "the  ticket  office  to  heaven."  Well, 
what  is  the  odds?  They  do  their  darg,  and  do  it  with 


^Et.  38]      ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON  523 

kindness  and  efficiency  incredible;  and  we  must  take  folk's 
virtues  as  we  find  them,  and  love  the  better  part.  Of  old 
Damien,  whose  weaknesses  and  worse  perhaps  I  heard 
fully,  I  think  only  the  more.  It  was  a  European  peasant : 
dirty,  bigotted,  untruthful,  unwise,  tricky,  but  superb 
with  generosity,  residual  candour  and  fundamental  good- 
humour:  convince  him  he  had  done  wrong  (it  might  take 
hours  of  insult)  and  he  would  undo  what  he  had  done 
and  like  his  corrector  better.  A  man,  with  all  the  grime 
and  paltriness  of  mankind,  but  a  saint  and  hero  all  the 
more  for  that.  The  place  as  regards  scenery  is  grand, 
gloomy,  and  bleak.  Mighty  mountain  walls  descending 
sheer  along  the  whole  face  of  the  island  into  a  sea  un- 
usually deep;  the  front  of  the  mountain  ivied  and  furred 
with  clinging  forest,  one  viridescent  cliff:  about  half-way 
from  east  to  west,  the  low,  bare,  stony  promontory  edged 
in  between  the  cliff  and  the  ocean;  the  two  little  towns 
(Kalawao  and  Kalaupapa)  seated  on  either  side  of  it,  as 
bare  almost  as  bathing  machines  upon  a  beach;  and  the 
population — gorgons  and  chimeras  dire.  All  this  tear 
of  the  nerves  I  bore  admirably;  and  the  day  after  I  got 
away,  rode  twenty  miles  along  the  opposite  coast  and  up 
into  the  mountains:  they  call  it  twenty,  I  am  doubtful  of 
the  figures:  I  should  guess  it  nearer  twelve;  but  let  me 
take  credit  for  what  residents  allege;  and  I  was  riding 
again  the  day  after,  so  I  need  say  no  more  about  health. 
Honolulu  does  not  agree  with  me  at  all:  I  am  always  out 
of  sorts  there,  with  slight  headache,  blood  to  the  head, 
etc.  I  had  a  good  deal  of  work  to  do  and  did  it  with 
miserable  difficulty ;  and  yet  all  the  time  I  have  been  gain- 
ing strength,  as  you  see,  which  is  highly  encouraging.  By 
the  time  I  am  done  with  this  cruise  I  shall  have  the  ma- 
terial for  a  very  singular  book  of  travels :  names  of  strange 
stories  and  characters,  cannibals,  pirates,  ancient  legends, 
old  Polynesian  poetry, — never  was  so  generous  a  farrago. 
I  am  going  down  now  to  get  the  story  of  a  shipwrecked 
family,  who  were  fifteen  months  on  an  .island  with  a 
murderer:  there  is  a  specimen.  The  Pacific  is  a  strange 
place;  the  nineteenth  century  only  exists  there  in  spots: 
all  around,  it  is  a  no  man's  land  of  the  ages,  a  stir-about 
of  epochs  and  races,  barbarisms  and  civilisations,  virtues 
and  crimes. 


524  KOBEKT   LOUIS    STEVENSON      [>Et.  40 

It  is  good  of  you  to  let  me  stay  longer,  but  if  I  had 
known  how  ill  you  were,  I  should  be  now  on  my  way 
home.  I  had  chartered  my  schooner  and  made  all  ar- 
rangements before  (at  last)  we  got  definite  news.  I  feel 
highly  guilty;  I  should  be  back  to  insult  and  worry  you 
a  little.  Our  address  till  further  notice  is  to  be  c/o  R. 
Towns  and  Co.,  Sydney.  That  is  final:  I  only  got  the 
arrangement  made  yesterday;  but  you  may  now  publish 
it  abroad.  —  Yours  ever, 

R.  L.  S. 


.  40] 

To  HENRY  JAMES 
[KIPLING'S  "DEBAUCH  OF  PRODUCTION"] 

VAILIMA,  APIA,  SAMOA, 

December  29th,  1890. 
My  dear  Henry  James,  — 

.  .  .  Kipling  is  by  far  the  most  promising  young  man 
who  has  appeared  since  —  ahem  —  I  appeared.  He  amazes 
me  by  his  precocity  and  various  endowment.  But  he 
alarms  me  by  his  copiousness  and  haste.  He  should 
shield  his  fire  with  both  hands  "and  draw  up  all  his 
strength  and  sweetness  in  one  ball!"  ("Draw  all  his 
strength  and  all  His  sweetness  up  into  one  ball?"  I  can- 
not remember  Marvell's  words.)  So  the  critics  have  been 
saying  to  me;  but  I  was  never  capable  of  —  and  surely 
never  guilty  of  —  such  a  debauch  of  production.  At  this 
rate  his  works  will  soon  fill  the  habitable  globe  ;  and  surely 
he  was  armed  for  better  conflicts  than  these  succinct 
sketches  and  flying  leaves  of  verse?  I  look  on,  I  admire, 
I  rejoice  for  myself;  but  in  a  kind  of  ambition  we  all 
have  for  our  tongue  and  literature  I  am  wounded.  If  I 
had  this  man's  fertility  and  courage,  it  seems  to  me  I 
could  heave  a  pyramid. 


Mi.  40]      KOBEKT   LOUIS    STEVENSON  525 

|>Et.  40] 

To  MR.  IDE 

[TRANSFERRING  A  BIRTHDAY] 

[VAILIMA,  June  19,  1891.] 
Dear  Mr.  Ide, 

Herewith  please  find  the  DOCUMENT,  which  I  trust 
will  prove  sufficient  in  law.  It  seems  to  me  very  attrac- 
tive in  its  eclecticism;  Scots,  English,  and  Roman  law 
phrases  are  all  indifferently  introduced,  and  a  quotation 
from  the  works  of  Haynes  Bailey  can  hardly  fail  to  at- 
tract the  indulgence  of  the  Bench. — Yours  very  truly, 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 

I,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  Advocate  of  the  Scots  Bar, 
author  of  The  Master  of  Ballantrae  and  Moral  Emblems, 
stuck  civil  engineer,  sole  owner  and  patentee  of  the  Palace 
and  Plantation  known  as  Vailima  in  the  island  of  Upolu, 
Samoa,  a  British  subject,  being  in  sound  mind,  and  pretty 
well,  I  thank  you,  in  body: 

In  consideration  that  Miss  Annie  H.  Ide,  daughter  of 
H.  C.  Ide,  in  the  town  of  St.  Johnsbury,  in  the  county 
of  Caledonia,  in  the  state  of  Vermont,  United  States  of 
America,  was  born,  out  of  all  reason,  upon  Christmas 
Day,  and  is  therefore  out  of  all  justice  denied  the  conso- 
lation and  profit  of  a  proper  birthday; 

And  considering  that  I,  the  said  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son, have  attained  an  age  when  O,  we  never  mention  it, 
and  that  I  have  now  no  further  use  for  a  birthday  of  any 
description ; 

And  in  consideration  that  I  have  met  H.  C.  Ide,  the 
father  of  the  said  Annie  H.  Ide,  and  found  him  about  as 
white  a  land  commissioner  as  I  require: 

Have  transferred,  and  do  hereby  transfer,  to  the  said 
Annie  H.  Ide,  all  and  whole  my  rights  and  privileges  in 
the  thirteenth  day  of  November,  formerly  my  birthday, 
now,  hereby,  and  henceforth,  the  birthday  of  the  said  An- 
nie H.  Ide,  to  have,  hold,  exercise,  and  enjoy  the  same  in 
the  customary  manner,  by  the  sporting  of  fine  raiment, 
eating  of  rich  meats,  and  receipt  of  gifts,  compliments, 
and  copies. of  verse,  -according  to  the  manner  of  our  an- 
cestors ; 


526  KOBEKT   LOUIS    STEVENSON      [>Et.  41 

And  I  direct  the  said  Annie  H.  Ide  to  add  to  the  said 
name  of  Annie  H.  Ide  the  name  Louisa — at  least  in  pri- 
vate; and  I  charge  her  to  use  my  said  birthday  with  mod- 
eration and  humanity,  et  tamquam  bona  filia  fccmilia,  the 
said  birthday  not  being  so  young  as  it  once  was,  and 
having  carried  me  in  a  very  satisfactory  manner  since  I 
can  remember; 

And  in  case  the  said  Annie  H.  Ide  shall  neglect  or 
contravene  either  of  the  above  conditions,  I  hereby  re- 
voke the  donation  and  transfer  my  rights  in  the  said 
birthday  to  the  President  of  the  United  States  of  America 
for  the  time  being: 

In  witness  whereof  I  have  hereto  set  my  hand  and  seal 
this  nineteenth  day  of  June  in  the  year  of  grace  eighteen 
hundred  and  ninety-one. 


EGBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 
Witness,  LLOYD  OSBOURNE, 
Witness,  HAROLD  WATTS. 


41] 

To  Miss  ANNIE  H.  IDE 
[HIS  "NAME-DAUGHTER"] 

VAILIMA,  SAMOA  [November,  1891]. 
My  dear  Louisa, — 

Your  picture  of  the  church,  the  photograph  of  your- 
self and  your  sister,  and  your  very  witty  and  pleasing 
letter,  came  all  in  a  bundle,  and  made  me  feel  I  had  my 
money's  worth  for  that  birthday.  I  am  now,  I  must  be, 
one  of  your  nearest  relatives ;  exactly  what  we  are  to  each 
other,  I  do  not  know,  I  doubt  if  the  case  has  ever  hap- 
pened before — your  papa  ought  to  know,  and  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  does;  but  I  think  I  ought  to  call  you  in  the 
meanwhile,  and  until  we  get  the  advice  of  counsel  learned 
in  the  law,  my  name-daughter.  Well,  I  was  extremely 
pleased  to  see  by  the  church  that  my  name-daughter  could 


JEb.  41]      EGBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON  527. 

draw;  by  the  letter,  that  she  was  no  fool;  and  by  the  pho- 
tograph, that  she  was  a  pretty  girl,  which  hurts  nothing. 
See  how  virtues  are  rewarded!  My  first  idea  of  adopting 
you  was  entirely  charitable;  and  here  I  find  that  I  am 
quite  proud  of  it,  and  of  you,  and  that  I  chose  just  the 
kind  of  name-daughter  I  wanted.  For  I  can  draw  too, 
or  rather  I  mean  to  say  I  could  before  I  forgot  how;  and 
I  am  very  far  from  being  a  fool  myself,  however  much  I 
may  look  it;  and  I  am  as  beautiful  as  the  day,  or  at  least 
I  once  hoped  that  perhaps  I  might  be  going  to  be.  And 
so  I  might.  So  that  you  see  we  are  well  met,  and  peers 
on  these  important  points.  I  am  very  glad  also  that  you 
are  older  than  your  sister.  So  should  I  have  been,  if  I 
had  had  one.  So  that  the  number  of  points  and  virtues 
which  you  have  inherited  from  your  name-father  is  al- 
ready quite  surprising. 

I  wish  you  would  tell  your  father — not  that  I  like  to 
encourage  my  rival — that  we  have  had  a  wonderful  time 
here  of  late,  and  that  they  are  having  a  cold  day  on 
Mulinuu,  and  the  consuls  are  writing  reports,  and  I  am 
writing  to  the  Times,  and  if  we  don't  get  rid  of  our 
friends  this  time  I  shall  begin  to  despair  of  everything 
but  my  name-daughter. 

You  are  quite  wrong  as  to  the  effect  of  the  birthday  on 
your  age.  From  the  moment  the  deed  was  registered  (as 
it  was  in  the  public  press  with  every  solemnity),  the  13th 
of  November  became  your  own  and  only  birthday,  and  you 
ceased  to  have  been  born  on  Christmas  Day.  Ask  your 
father:  I  am  sure  he  will  tell  you  this  is  sound  law.  You 
are  thus  become  a  month  and  twelve  days  younger  than 
you  were,  but  will  go  on  growing  older  for  the  future  in 
the  regular  and  human  manner  from  one  13th  November 
to  the  next.  The  effect  on  me  is  more  doubtful;  I  may, 
as  you  suggest,  live  for  ever;  I  might,  on  the  other  hand, 
come  to  pieces  like  the  one-horse  shay  at  a  moment's  no- 
tice; doubtless  the  step  was  risky,  but  I  do  not  the  least 
regret  that  which  enables  me  to  sign  myself  your  revered 
and  delighted  name-father, 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


•  528  KOBEKT   LOUIS    STEVENSON      (Mt.  42 

[-fflt.  42] 

To  JAMES  PAYN 
["CONTINUAL  SPASMS  OF  CANNON";  PIQUET] 

VAILIMA,  UPOLU,  SAMOA  [August,  1893]. 
My  dear  James  Payn, — 

I  hear  from  Lang  that  you  are  unwell,  and  it  reminds 
me  of  two  circumstances:  First,  that  it  is  a  very  long 
time  since  you  had  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  hearing  from 
me;  and  second,  that  I  have  been  very  often  unwell  my- 
self, and  sometimes  had  to  thank  you  for  a  grateful  ano- 
dyne. 

They  are  not  good,  the  circumstances,  to  write  an 
anodyne  letter.  The  hills  and  my  house  at  less  than 
(boom)  a  minute's  interval  quake  with  thunder;  and 
though  I  cannot  hear  that  part  of  it,  shells  are  falling 
thick  into  the  fort  of  Lotoanuu  (boom).  It  is  my  friend 
of  the  Curagoa,  the  Adler,  and  the  Bussard  bombarding 
(after  all  these-boom-months)  the  rebels  of  Atua.  (Boom- 
boom.)  It  is  most  distracting  in  itself;  and  the  thought 
of  the  poor  devils  in  their  fort  (boom)  with  their  bits  of 
rifles  far  from  pleasant.  (Boom-boom.)  You  can  see 
how  quick  it  goes,  and  I'll  say  no  more  about  Mr.  Bow- 
wow, only  you  must  understand  the  perpetual  accompani- 
ment of  this  discomfortable  sound,  and  make  allowances 
for  the  value  of  my  copy.  It  is  odd,  though,  I  can  well 
remember  when  the  Franco-Prussian  war  began,  and  I 
was  in  Eilean  Earraid,  far  enough  from  the  sound  of  the 
loudest  cannonade,  I  could  hear  the  shots  fired,  and  I  felt 
the  pang  in  my  breast  of  a  man  struck.  It  was  some- 
times so  distressing,  so  instant,  that  I  lay  in  the  heather 
on  the  top  of  the  island,  with  my  face  hid,  kicking  my 
heels  for  agony.  And  now,  when  I  can  hear  the  actual 
concussions  of  the  air  and  hills,  when  I  know  personally 
the  people  who  stand  exposed  to  it,  I  am  able  to  go  on 
tant  bien  que  mal  with  a  letter  to  James  Payn!  The 
blessings  of  age,  though  mighty  small,  are  tangible.  I 
have  heard  a  great  deal  of  them  since  I  came  into  the 
world,  and  now  that  I  begin  to  taste  of  them — Well !  But 
this  is  one,  that  people  do  get  cured  of  the  excess  of  sensi- 
bility; and  I  had  as  lief  these  people  were  shot  at  as  my- 


Mt.  42]      EGBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON  529 

self — or  almost,  for  then  I  should  have  some  of  the  fun, 
such  as  it  is. 

You  are  to  conceive  me,  then,  sitting  in  my  little  gal- 
lery room,  shaken  by  these  continual  spasms  of  cannon, 
and  with  my  eye  more  or  less  singly  fixed  on  the  imagi- 
nary figure  of  my  dear  James  Payn.  I  try  to  see  him  in 
bed ;  no  go.  I  see  him  instead  jumping  up  in  his  room 
in  Waterloo  Place  (where  ex  hypothesi  he  is  not),  sitting 
on  the  table,  drawing  out  a  very  black  briar-root  pipe, 
and  beginning  to  talk  to  a  slim  and  ill-dressed  visitor  in 
a  voice  that  is  good  to  hear  and  with  a  smile  that  is 
pleasant  to  see.  (After  a  little  more  than  half  an  hour, 
the  voice  that  was  ill  to  hear  has  ceased,  the  cannonade 
is  over.)  And  I  am  thinking  how  I  can  get  an  answer- 
ing smile  wafted  over  so  many  leagues  of  land  and  water, 
and  can  find  no  way. 

I  have  always  been  a  great  visitor  of  the  sick;  and  one 
of  the  sick  I  visited  was  W.  E.  Henley,  which  did  not 
make  very  tedious  visits,  so  I'll  not  get  off  much  purga- 
tory for  them.  That  was  in  the  Edinburgh  Infirmary, 
the  old  one,  the  true  one,  with  Georgius  Secundus  stand- 
ing and  pointing  his  toe  in  a  niche  of  the  facade;  and  a 
mighty  fine  building  it  was!  And  I  remember  one  win- 
ter's afternoon,  in  that  place  of  misery,  that  Henley  and 
I  chanced  to  fall  in  talk  about  James  Payn  himself.  I 
am  wishing  that  you  could  have  heard  that  talk !  I  think 
that  would  make  you  smile.  We  had  mixed  you  up  with 
John  Payne,  for  one  thing,  and  stood  amazed  at  your 
extraordinary,  even  painful,  versatility;  and  for  another, 
we  found  ourselves  each  students  so  well  prepared  for 
examinations  on  the  novels  of  the  real  Mackay.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  this  is  worth  something  in  life — to  have  given 
so  much  pleasure  to  a  pair  so  different  in  every  way  as 
were  Henley  and  I,  and  to  be  talked  of  with  so  much  in- 
terest by  two  such  (beg  pardon)  clever  lads ! 

The  cheerful  Lang  has  neglected  to  tell  me  what  is  the 
matter  with  you;  so,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  I  am  cut  off  from 
all  the  customary  consolations.  I  can't  say,  "Think  how 
much  worse  it  would  be  if  you  had  a  broken  leg!"  when 
you  may  have  the  crushing  repartee  up  your  sleeve,  "But 
it  is  my  leg  that  is  broken."  This  is  a  pity.  But  there 
are  consolations.  You  are  an  Englishman  (I  believe) ; 


530  KOBEKT   LOUIS    STEVENSON      [^Et.  43 

you  are  a  man  of  letters;  you  have  never  been  made 
C.B.;  your  hair  was  not  red;  you  have  played  cribbage 
and  whist;  you  did  not  play  either  the  fiddle  or  the  banjo; 

you  were  never  an  aesthete;  you  never  contributed  to 

Journal;  your  name  is  not  Jabez  Balfour;  you  are  totally 
unconnected  with  the  Army  and  Navy  departments;  I 
understand  you  to  have  lived  within  your  income — why, 
cheer  up!  here  are  many  legitimate  causes  of  congratu- 
lation. I  seem  to  be  writing  an  obituary  notice.  Absit 
omen!  But  I  feel  very  sure  that  these  considerations 
will  have  done  you  more  good  than  medicine. 

By  the  by,  did  you  ever  play  piquet  ?  I  have  fallen  a 
victim  to  this  debilitating  game.  It  is  supposed  to  be 
scientific ;  God  save  the  mark,  what  self-deceivers  men 
are!  It  is  distinctly  less  so  than  cribbage.  But  how 
fascinating!  There  is  such  material  opulence  about  it, 
such  vast  ambitions  may  be  realised — and  are  not;  it  may 
be  called  the  Monte  Cristo  of  games.  And  the  thrill  with 
which  you  take  five  cards  partakes  of  the  nature  of  lust — 
and  you  draw  four  sevens  and  a  nine,  and  the  seven  and 
nine  of  a  suit  that  you  discarded,  and  O!  but  the  world 
is  a  desert!  You  may  see  traces  of  discouragement  in 
my  letter :  all  due  to  piquet !  There  has  been  a  disastrous 
turn  of  the  luck  against  me;  a  month  or  two  ago  I  was 
two  thousand  ahead;  now,  and  for  a  week  back,  I  have 
been  anything  from  four  thousand  eight  hundred  to  five 
thousand  two  hundred  astern.  If  I  have  a  sixieme,  my 
beast  of  a  partner  has  a  septieme;  and  if  I  have  three 
aces,  three  kings,  three  queens,  and  three  knaves  (excuse 
the  slight  exaggeration),  the  devil  holds  quatorze  of  tens! 
— I  remain,  my  dear  James  Payn,  your  sincere  and  obliged 
friend — old  friend  let  me  say, 

EGBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 

[^Et.  43] 

To  GEORGE  MEREDITH 
["GOWER  WOODSERE"] 

VAILIMA,  SAMOA,  April  17th,  1894. 
My  dear  Mereditih, — 

Many  good  things  have  the  gods  sent  to  me  of  late. 
First  of  all  there  was  a  letter  from  you  by  the  kind  hand 


Ml.  43]      ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON  521 

of  Marietta,  if  she  is  not  too  great  a  lady  to  be  remer.:- 
bered  in  such  a  style;  and  then. there  came  one  Lysaght 
with  a  charming  note  of  introduction  in  the  well-known 
hand  itself.  We  had  but  a  few  days  of  him,  and  liked 
him  well.  There  was  a  sort  of  geniality  and  inward  fire 
about  him  at  which  I  warmed  my  hands.  It  is  long  since 
I  have  seen  a  young  man  who  has  left  in  me  such  a  fa- 
vourable impression ;  and  I  find  myself  telling  myself,  "O, 
I  must  tell  this  to  Lysaght,"  or,  "This  will  interest  him," 
in  a  manner  very  unusual  after  so  brief  an  acquaintance. 
The  whole  of  my  family  shared  in  this  favourable  im- 
pression, and  my  halls  have  re-echoed  ever  since,  I  am 
sure  he  will  be  amused  to  know,  with  Widdicombe  Fair. 

He  will  have  told  you  doubtless  more  of  my  news  than 
I  could  tell  you  myself;  he  has  your  European  perspec- 
tive, a  thing  long  lost  to  me.  I  heard  with  a  great  deal 
of  interest  the  news  of  Box  Hill.  And  so  I  understand 
it  is  to  be  enclosed!  Allow  me  to  remark,  that  seems  a 
far  more  barbaric  trait  of  manners  than  the  most  bar- 
barous of  ours.  We  content  ourselves  with  cutting  off  an 
occasional  head. 

I  hear  we  may  soon  expect  the  Amazing  Marriage.  You 
know  how  long,  and  with  how  much  curiosity,  I  have 
looked  forward  to  the  book.  Now,  in  so  far  as  you  have 
adhered  to  your  intention,  Gower  Woodsere  will  be  a 
family  portrait,  age  twenty-five,  of  the  highly  respectable 
and  slightly  influential  and  fairly  aged  Tusitala.  You 
have  not  known  that  gentleman ;  console  yourself,  he  is 
not  worth  knowing.  At  the  same  time,  my  dear  Mere- 
dith, he  is  very  sincerely  yours — for  what  he  is  worth,  for 
the  memories  of  old  times,  and  in  the  expectation  of 
many  pleasures  still  to  come.  I  suppose  we  shall  never 
see  each  other  again ;  flitting  youths  of  the  Lysaght  species 
may  occasionally  cover  these  unconscionable  leagues  and 
bear  greetings  to  and  fro.  But  we  ourselves  must  be  con- 
tent to  converse  on  an  occasional  sheet  of  notepaper,  and 
I  shall  never  see  whether  you  have  grown  older,  and  you 
shall  never  deplore  that  Gower  Woodsere  should  have  de- 
clined into  the  pantaloon  Tusitala.  It  is  perhaps  better 
so.  Let  us  continue  to  see  each  other  as  we  were,  and 
accept,  my  dear  Meredith,  my  love  and  respect. 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


532  EGBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON     .[^Et.  44 

[JEt.  44] 

To  EDMUND  GOSSE  * 

["l  WAS  NOT  BORN  FOR  AGE"] 

VAILIMA,  SAMOA,  December  1,  1894. 

I  am  afraid,  my  dear  Weg,  that  this  must  be  the  result 
of  bribery  and  corruption!  The  volume  to  which  the 
dedication  stands  as  preface  seems  to  me  to  stand  alone 
in  your  work;  it  is  so  natural,  so  personal,  so  sincere,  so 
articulate  in  substance,  and  what  you  always  were  sure 
of — so  rich  in  adornment. 

Let  me  speak  first  of  the  dedication.  I  thank  you  for 
it  from  my  heart.  It  is  beautifully  said,  beautifully  and 
kindly  felt;  and  I  should  be  a  churl  indeed  if  I  were  not 
grateful,  and  an  ass  if  I  were  not  proud.  I  remember 
when  Symonds  dedicated  a  book  to  me;  I  wrote  and  told 
him  of  "the  pang  of  gratified  vanity"  with  which  I  had 
read  it.  The  pang  was  present  again,  but  how  much  more 
sober  and  autumnal — like  your  volume.  Let  me  tell  you 
a  story,  or  remind  you  of  a  story.  In  the  year  of  grace 
something  or  other,  anything  between  '76  and  '78,  I  men- 
tioned to  you  in  my  usual  autobiographical  and  incon- 
siderate manner  that  I  was  hard  up.  You  said  promptly 
that  you  had  a  balance  at  your  banker's,  and  could  make 
it  convenient  to  let  me  have  a  cheque,  and  I  accepted  and 
got  the  money — how  much  was  it? — twenty,  or  perhaps 
thirty  pounds?  I  know  not — but  it  was  a  great  conve- 
nience. The  same  evening,  or  the  next  day,  I  fell  in  con- 
versation (in  my  usual  autobiographical  and  .  .  .  see 
above)  with  a  denizen  of  the  Savile  Club,  name  now  gone 
from  me,  only  his  figure  and  a  dim  three-quarter  view  of 
his  face  remaining.  To  him  I  mentioned  that  you  had 
given  me  a  loan,  remarking  easily  that  of  course  it 
didn't  matter  to  you.  Whereupon  he  read  me  a  lecture, 
and  told  me  how  it  really  stood  with  you  financially.  He 
was  pretty  serious,  fearing,  as  I  could  not  help  perceiving, 
that  I  should  take  too  light  a  view  of  the  responsibility 
and  the  service  (I  was  always  thought  too  light — the  irre- 
sponsible jester — you  remember.  O,  quantum  mutatus  ab 
illo!}  If  I  remember  rightly,  the  money  was  repaid  be- 

*  Stevenson  died  two  days  after  the  date  of  this  letter. 


JEt.  44]      EGBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON  533 

fore  the  end  of  the  week — or,  to  be  more  exact  and  a 
trifle  pedantic,  the  sennight — but  the  service  has  never 
been  forgotten;  and  I  send  you  back  this  piece  of  ancient 
history,  consule  Planco,  as  a  salute  for  your  dedication, 
and  propose  that  we  should  drink  the  health  of  the  name- 
less one  who  opened  my  eyes  as  to  the  true  nature  of 
what  you  did  for  me  on  that  occasion. 

But  here  comes  my  Amanuensis,  so  we'll  get  on  more 
swimmingly  now.  You  will  understand  perhaps  that 
what  so  particularly  pleased  me  in  the  new  volume,  what 
seems  to  me  to  have  so  personal  and  original  a  note,  are 
the  middle-aged  pieces  in  the  beginning.  The  whole  of 
them,  I  may  say,  though  I  must  own  an  especial  liking 
to— 

I  yearn  not  for  the  fighting  fate, 

That  holds  and  hath  achieved; 

I  live  to  watch  and  meditate 

And  dream — and  be  deceived. 

You  take  the  change  gallantly.  Not  I,  I  must  confess. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  renunciation,  and  of  course 
it  has  to  be  done.  But,  for  my  part,  give  me  a  roaring 
toothache!  I  do  like  to  be  deceived  and  to  dream,  but  I 
have  very  little  use  for  either  watching  or  meditation.  I 
was  not  born  for  age.  And,  curiously  enough,  I  seem  to 
see  a  contrary  drift  in  my  work  from  that  which  is  so  re- 
markable in  yours.  You  are  going  on  sedately  travelling 
through  your  ages,  decently  changing  with  the  years  to 
the  proper  tune.  And  here  am  I,  quite  out  of  my  true 
course,  and  with  nothing  in  my  foolish  elderly  head  but 
love-stories.  This  must  repose  upon  some  curious  dis- 
tinction of  temperaments.  I  gather  from  a  phrase,  boldly 
autobiographical,  that  you  are — well,  not  precisely  grow- 
ing thin.  Can  that  be  the  difference? 

It  is  rather  funny  that  this  matter  should  come  up 
just  now,  as  I  am  at  present  engaged  in  treating  a  severe 
case  of  middle  age  in  one  of  my  stories — The  Justice- 
Clerk.  The  case  is  that  of  a  woman,  and  I  think  that  I 
am  doing  her  justice.  You  will  be  interested,  I  believe, 
to  see  the  difference  in  our  treatments.  Seer  eta  Vitce 
comes  nearer  to  the  case  of  my  poor  Kirstie.  Come  to 
think  of  it,  Gosse,  I  believe  the  main  distinction  is  that 


534  ROBERT   LOUIS    STEVENSON      [^Et.  44 

you  have  a  family  growing  up  around  you,  and  I  am  a 
childless,  rather  bitter,  very  clear-eyed,  blighted  youth. 
I  have,  in  fact,  lost  the  path  that  makes  it  easy  and  natu- 
ral for  you  to  descend  the  hill.  I  am  going  at  it  straight. 
And  where  I  have  to  go  down  it  is  a  precipice. 

I  must  not  forget  to  give  you  a  word  of  thanks  for  An 
English  Village.  It  reminds  me  strongly  of  Keats,  which 
is  enough  to  say;  and  I  was  particularly  pleased  with  the 
petulant  sincerity  of  the  concluding  sentiment. 

Well,  my  dear  Gosse,  here's  wishing  you  all  health  and 
prosperity,  as  well  as  to  the  mistress  and  the  bairns.  May 
you  live  long,  since  it  seems  as  if  you  would  continue  to 
enjoy  life.  May  you  write  many  more  books  as  good  as 
this  one — only  there's  one  thing  impossible,  you  can  never 
write  another  dedication  that  can  give  the  same  pleasure 
to  the  vanished 

TUSITALA. 


APPENDIX 

BENJAMIN  CLOUGH  TO  ASA  CLOUGH 

[MURDER  AT  SEA] 
ON  BOARD  SHIP  Sharon,  OF  FAIRHAVEN. 

AT  SEA,  Thursday,  Feb.  9,  1843. 

A  favorable  chance  having  presented  itself,  I  embrace 
it  to  write  you  a  few  lines.  After  my  last  at  Brava,  we 
shaped  our  course  for  St.  Paul's  Island  where  we  arrived 
making  a  quick  passage.  We  stopped  here  a  few  hours 
and  I  went  ashore  in  the  boat.  We  pulled  into  a  small 
basin  on  the  east  side  of  the  island,  which  is  supposed  to 
have  been  the  crater  of  a  burning  mountain,  having  boil- 
ing springs  on  the  beach  where  you  can  catch  a  fish  and 
heave  him  over  your  head  into  the  spring,  where  he  will 
be  cooked  and  salted  in  a  few  minutes,  the  water  being 
salt.  We  saw  a  few  hogs,  but  too  far  distant  to  be  got 
at  with  ease.  There  is  nothing  grows  on  the  island  but 
Scurvy-grass.  We  saw  the  grave  of  the  mate  of  the 
Aeronaut  of  New  London  (Mystic),  who  was  killed  near 
this  island  by  a  whale  in  1837.  We  caught  a  few  fish 
and  went  on  board,  pulling  past  a  great  number  of 
Wright  Whales.  We  then  shaped  our  course  for  Copang, 
where  we  arrived  Oct.  26,  dropped  anchor  and  lay  three 
days,  but  finding  nothing  to  be  got  but  water.  A  few 
Dutch  here,  and  a  thing  by  the  name  of  Fort,  but  not 
much  more.  Some  Chinese  and  the  rest  Malays.  The 
Chinese  have  a  Temple  here  and  the  Malays  a  Mosque, 
which  are  of  not  much  account.  After  we  left  here,  we 
passed  through  the  Straits  of  Timor  Bunda  Sea,  Pitt's 
Passage,  Lokisang  Channel,  and  Gillot's  Passage  into  the 
Pacific  Ocean,  seeing  Sperm  Whales  once  in  the  Straits, 
but  got  none,  three  of  our  boat  steerers  having  missed. 
We  then  started  for  Pleasant  Island  on  the  Equator  in 
Long.  167,  20  E.,  the  place  of  our  destination.  I  would 
here  observe  that  Capt.  Norris  has  been  frequently  beat- 
ing the  steward,  Geo.  Babcock,  a  mullato  belonging  at 

535 


536  APPENDIX 

Newport,  R.  I.,  in  the  most  barbarous,  manner.  On  the 
12th  Dec.  1841  I  heard  the  Steward  say,  "O  Sir,  you  will 
kill  me,"  and  the  mate  went  down  and  the  Capt.  came 
on  deck  and  ordered  him  put  in  the  rigging  whare  he 
gave  him  2  dozen  with  the  double  part  of  18  yarn,  cut 
him  down,  and  ordered  him  to  go  to  his  duty  again.  About 
7  p.m.  the  bell  rang  for  the  steward  but  he  not  coming 
the  mate  went  forward  and  sung  out  for  him,  when  one 
of  the  men  sung  out  that  he  was  not  coming  until  he  was 
used  better.  He  was  then  brought  out  by  force  and  8  of 
the  crew  put  in  irons.  2  of  them  were  then  seized  up 
and  given  2  dozen  a  piece  and  the  rest,  promising  to  do 
better,  were  all  sent  to  their  duty  again. 

We  then  went  back  on  our  cruising  ground  and  cruised 
the  season,  having  very  bad  luck,  the  Captain  beating  the 
Steward  as  usual.  We  then  started  for  Rotumah  and 
April  7th  let  go  Anchor.  We  lay  here  and  took  in  wood 
and  water  and  9  of  our  men  left.  We  shipped  2  White 
men,  4  Kanakas,  2  Rotumah  men,  1  Ocean  and  1  Hope 
Islander,  the  last  two  being  left  here  by  other  ships.  We 
then  started  for  our  ground  again  and  at  Hope  Island 
got  more  Natives. 

This  season  the  Devil  appears  to  have  entered  our  Cap- 
tain with  double  force.  About  the  middle  of  June  the 
Steward  he  burnt  his  foot  to  blister  all  over.  I  would 
add  that  after  we  left  Rotumah  he  was  turned  out  of  the 
cabin  and  put  in  cook,  he  not  being  allowed  to  leave  the 
ship.  At  the  time  he  scalt  his  foot,  he  was  reduced  to 
almost  a  Skeleton.  Sometimes  his  eyes  swelled  so  that 
he  could  not  see,  and  the  blood  and  corruption  running 
from  all  parts  of  his  body,  the  skin  hanging  in  great 
flakes  on  his  foot.  Some  times  he  would  make  him  mix 
Meal  in  a  Kid  and  set  it  on  deck  and  eat  raw  meal  with 
the  Hogs.  The  4th  of  July  he  gave  him  7  dozen  on  the 
back,  one  on  the  head  and  one  on  the  feet,  he  being  made 
what  is  called  Spread  Eagle,  that  is,  he  being  tied  by  the 
rists  so  that  his  feet  could  not  touch  and  his  legs  seized 
out  taut  each  way.  The  rope  used  was  hemp  whale  line. 
Erom  the  first  of  July  to  the  first  of  September  he  beat 
him  almost  every  day,  using  any  weapon  that  came  to 
hand  and  making  him  rub  the  plank  when  there  was  any 
bunches  in  them  until  his  Knees  were  worn  nearly  to 


APPENDIX  537 

the  bone  and  his  foot  a  mass  of  corruption.  He  then 
undertook  to  cure  them  but  whenever  he  dressed  them  he 
would  stamp  on  them  and  kick  him  in  the  face  until  the 
blood  would  stream  from  his  mouth  and  nose  and  then 
make  him  stuff  up  his  nose  with  Oakum. 

On  the  1  of  September  he  came  on  deck  in  the  morn- 
ing, sung  out  for  the  Steward  as  usual,  which  was,  where 
are  you,  you  damned  Nigger  you,  and  set  him  to  oiling 
a  couple  of  brass  guns  that  stood  aft,  when  the  Capt.  was 
informed  that  he  had  some  Meat  the  night  before,  which 
he  had  not.  He  then  got  his  rope  and  gave  him  a  terrible 
flogging  acrost  the  back  as  he  was  bending  over  oiling 
the  guns.  At  7.30  we  got  breakfast.  After  breakfast  he 
got  some  salve  to  put  on  his  wounds,  and  gave  a  great 
many  kicks  as  usual  in  the  temples.  He  told  him  to  go 
draw  a  tub  of  water  in  the  waist.  He  got  up  to  go  and 
stumbled  a  number  of  times  from  the  Mizzen  mast  to  the 
waist.  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  he  could  draw  a 
bucket  of  water,  which  the  captain  seeing,  came  with  a 
rope  and  kept  flogging  him  over  the  back.  After  he  got 
the  water  drawn  he  told  him  to  get  some  sand  and  go  to 
scouring,  which  he  started  to  do  and  stumbled  from  Star- 
board to  Larboard  side,  where  he  fell.  The  Capt.  began 
to  beat  him  with  the  rope  to  make  him  get  up.  He  tried 
a  number  of  times  by  getting  hold  of  things  and  kept 
stumbling  until  he  came  to  the  cheptree  where  he  fell  to 
rise  no  more,,  Capt.  Norris  beating  him  all  the  time  and 
he  saying  Oh  Capt. — I  am  dying.  He  was  sewed  up  in 
a  blanket  with  his  bloody  clothes  on  and  at  sunset  hove 
overboard. 

The  Captain  has  often  said  he  would  kill  him  in  de- 
fiance of  everything,  and  when  he  was  beating  him  he 
say  he  expected  to  go  to  Hell  for  him  and  the  day  he 
killed  him  he  told  him  he  need  not  be  afraid  of  going  to 
Hell  as  they  would  kick  him  out  of  that.  So  ends  as 
cold-blooded  a  murder  as  was  ever  recorded,  being  about 
eight  months  taking  his  life. 

One  of  our  men  that  we  shipped  at  Kotumah  when  we 
were  at  Pleasant  Island  got  into  a  canoe  to  desert  when 
he  was  discovered  afld  ordered  on  deck.  When  he  got 
there  the  Captain  catched  him  by  the  collar  and  the  man 
catched  hold  of  his  shirt,  the  man  being  drunk,  when 


538  APPENDIX 

the  Captain  sung  out  for  help  and  he  was  tied  hand  and 
foot  with  spun  yarn.  He  then  choked  him  and  kicked 
him  in  the  face,  and  the  man  said  if  he  ever  got  loose  he 
would  take  his  life.  The  Captain  ordered  him  to  be  put  : 
into  a  canoe  but  we  afterwards  learned  that  he  never 
reached  the  shore.  This  was  before  the  Steward  was 
killed. 

Our  Captain  was  also  in  the  habit  of  pounding  the 
Kanakas  also.  After  the  season  was  out  we  went  to 
Ascension  in  Lat.  6.20  North,  Long.  158.30  E.  Whilst 
we  lay  there  recruiting  the  Captain  kept  drunk.  12  men 
left  us  here,  saying  they  would  not  sail  with  a  Murderer. 

Oct.  27,  1842,  we  left  Ascension  for  New  Zealand  to 
get  men,  the  Captain  keeping  drunk  nearly  all  the  time 
and  beating  the  Kanakas,  we  having  6  of  them  on  board 
and  but  11  of  the  rest  of  us.  Nov.  5  we  raised  sperm 
whales  and  lowered  two  boats,  leaving  the  Captain,  stew- 
ard and  3  natives  on  board,  the  Captain  about  half  drunk. 
We  struck  a  whale  and  killed  him  and  continued  chasing 
the  School  when  we  saw  the  colors  at  the  main-top-gallant 
head  set  at  half  mast.  We  then  pulled  for  the  ship,  when 
the  man  who  was  at  Mast  head  said  that  the  natives  had 
killed  the  Captain  and  got  possession  of  the  ship,  haveing 
the  Cutting  Spades,  Harpoons,  Lances,  Wood,  Bone  be- 
laying Pins,  Hammers,  etc.,  to  keep  the  boats  off.  We 
then  told  the  Steward  to  cut  the  halliards  and  let  the 
Sails  run  down  to  stop  the  Ship's  headway.  We  then 
pulled  up  to  the  Ship.  They  threw  an  axe  into  the  Boat, 
wood,  etc.,  so  that  we  could  not  come  near  the  ship  with- 
out the  loss  of  lives,  the  Natives  keeping  watch  of  each 
Boat  with  long  spades  in  their  hands  and  one  at  the 
wheel,  the  Sun  being  about  3  minutes  high.  Soon  as  it 
begun  to  grow  dark  we  pulled  out  ahead  of  the  Ship  and 
I  took  a  Boat  knife  in  my  mouth  to  keep  off  the  Sharks, 
there  being  plenty  around.  I  got  overboard  and  silently 
swam  for  the  Ship,  just  keeping  my  head  above  water 
enough  to  breathe.  I  got  hold  of  the  Eye  bolt  in  the 
rudder,  got  up  onto  it,  and  then  into  the  Cabin  window. 
As  I  came  alongside  one  of  the  Natives  was  standing 
between  the  Night  heads  pounding1  on  a  tin  pan.  As 
soon  as  I  got  into  the  Cabin  window  I  took  off  my  clothes, 
they  being  wet,  and  to  be  in  a  better  condition  for  fight- 


APPENDIX  539 

ing.  I  then  got  2  cutlasses  and  carried  them  into  the 
Forward  Cabin  and  set  them  up  at  the  Stairs.  I  then 
got  some  powder  and  balls  and  Muskets  and  commenced 
loading  them.  I  could  hear  the  natives  walking  about 
decks,  getting  Weapons  together  to  keep  off  the  boats.  I 
had  got  2  of  the  Muskets  loaded  and  the  Powder  into 
the  third  one,  and  stepped  into  the  After  Cabin  to  get 
Balls  when  I  heard  someone  coming  down.  I  stepped  to 
the  door  when  I  saw  one  of  the  Natives  had  just  got  to 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  knocking  the  Muskets  down 
that  I  set  up  there.  Being  no  light  in  the  Cabin,  he 
could  not  see  me  so  well  as  I  could  him.  I  stepped  out 
and  got  a  Cutlass,  made  a  thrust  at  him,  but  it  being 
dark  I  did  not  hurt  him  very  bad.  He  gave  a  shout, 
catched  hold  of  me  and  I  hold  of  him.  I  stepped  back 
into  the  After  Cabin,  he  following,  both  of  us  having 
hold  of  the  Cutlass.  I  then  threw  him  onto  the  Cabin 
floor,  when  he  began  to  sing  out  for  the  other  Natives 
and  I  to  work  at  him  with  my  fist  and  the  edge  of  the 
Cutlass  which  sawed  acrost  the  back  of  his  neck.  I  then 
jumped  up  and  started  for  the  Stairs,  but  he  jumped  up 
and  slashed  manfully  for  a  minute  or  two,  but  it  being 
dark  he  could  not  see  me  nor  I  him,  but  he  hit  me  8  or 
10  times.  I  then  stepped  to  the  foot  of  the  Stairs  in 
forward  Cabin  and  looked  up  and  saw  one  of  the  Natives 
with  a  long  spade  about  half  way  down  the  Stairs  ready 
to  cut  if  he  could  see  anybody.  I  then  took  up  a  Musket 
and  shot  him  through  the  heart,  the  Spade  coming  down 
at  the  same  time  and  cutting  me  on  the  thick  part  of 
my  Arm  above  the  elbow,  cutting  to  the  bone.  I  heard 
the  Native  in  the  After  Cabin  breathe  heavily  and  heard 
from  him  no  more.  I  steped  back  into  the  Cabin,  the 
blood  running  from  all  parts  of  my  body  like  a  stuck 
dolphin,  in  the  dark,  the  boats  away  and  one  Native  on 
deck.  Directly  he  came  along  with  a  spade  in  his  hand, 
but  seeing  one  Native  dead  and  seeing  the  other  he  went 
forward  before  I  could  get  a  Musket.  I  then  called  the 
Boats  on  board  and  a  light  was  struck,  and  the  Native 
laying  on  the  Transom  in  the  After  Cabin  when  the  Mate 
took  a  Musket  and  put  a  ball  through  his  heart.  He  was 
dragged  on  deck  and  both  of  them  thrown  overboard. 
The  Captain  was  found  dead  on  the  starboard  side 


540  APPENDIX 

abreast  of  the  after  part  of  the  Main  rigging,  his  head 
nearly  severed  from  his  body  and  mangled  by  the  Hogs, 
pieces  of  scull  laying  on  deck.  .1  then  had  my  wounds 
dressed,  being  about  15  in  number,  my  body  being  all 
over  blood,  both  Cabin  floors  being  covered  with  blood 
and  the  Starboard  side  of  the  deck.  The  next  morning 
the  Captain  was  buried  with  the  usual  ceremonies  and 
the  other  Native  found  stowed  away  between  decks  and 
put  in  Irons  and  the  Ship  headed  for  Sidney.  There  we 
arrived  22nd.  of  Dec.,  1842.  We  delivered  our  Native  up 
to  the  American  Consul.  We  left  the  6th  of  Jan.,  the 
Mate  Thomas  H.  Smith,  taking  command  and  I  am  sec- 
ond mate.  My  wounds  got  healed  up  about  the  time  we 
went  into  Sidney.  We  have  now  about  500  Blls  of  Sperm 
Oil  on  board. 

But  how  long  we  shall  be  out  is  more  than  I  can  say. 
I  have  enjoyed  very  good  health  since  we  left  Sidney 
except  my  Right  hand  which  is  so  that  I  can  hardly  hold 
a  pen. 

We  have  got  a  good  crew  on  board  and  I  am  in  hopes 
that  we  shall  do  something  as  we  are  on  good  ground.  I 
have  not  time  to  write  more  as  I  am  holding  paper  in 
my  hand.  Give  my  respects  to  all  Enquiring  friends, 
etc. 

B.  CLOUGH. 


J.  NATAHU  TO  THE  COLORADO  TAX  COMMISSION  * 
[JAPANESE  ENGLISH] 

'Hon  tex  comision  and  Hon  comision  bord  and  kart- 
rite:  Gents:  This  respectfy  say  that  mi  go  devil  motor- 
cickle  is  maid  too  much  in  taxe  ritin  receev  from  you. 
Trade  fur  it  5  years  long  with  2  hog.  they  ded,  it  now 
ded.  run  thrue  stcky  fence  in  ditch,  no  koff,  no  go.  You 
bon  hed  kum  take  him.  no  pay  so  dam  much  as  Hon 
comision  say  in  ritin  on  ded  go  devil.  You  kum  tak  em 
hole  ranch. 

J.  NATAHU." 

*  Mr.  Cartwright,  tax  assessor  of  Oterp  County,  had  been  instructed 
by  the  Colorado  Tax  Commission  to  increase  the  valuation  of  all 
motorcycles. 


APPENDIX  541 

G.  MATSUKO*  TO  THE  SAN  FRANCISCO  "CHRONICLE" 

["PRO-NOTHINGS"] 

I  wish  you  will  preach  to  throw  all  of  the  near- Ameri- 
cans and  pro-nothings  in  the  Bay;  do  no  longer  handle 
the  half-breed  with  kid  words.  .  .  .  Ever  since  I  arrive 
in  this  land  of  free  I  am  learning  more  to  regret  that  I 
am  not  born  here,  so  I  can  sign  name  Smith  or  likewise. 
I  wish  to  be  best  American  money  can  buy.  It  makes 
me  blushful  now  to  think  I  do  no  more  than  refrain  from 
best  food.  I  have  admiration  for  them  which  wears  but- 
ton saying,  'I  owe  for  Liberty  Bond,'  and  I  make  loud 
cheer  for  him.  This  is  the  lifetime  to  raise  hell  for  Ger- 
mans, and  I  beg  you  assisting. 

G.  MATSUKO. 


SERGEANT  C.  B.  CURTIS  TO  His  MOTHER 

[A  RHYMING  LETTER] 
WITH  THE  AMERICAN  EXPEDITIONARY  FORCES, 

"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE/' 

April  13,  1918. 
Dear  Ma: 

Just  a  line  to  let  you  know  that  the  boys  are  on  the  go 
and  the  war  is  still  in  progress  over  here.  We'll  soon  get 
that  sour  quince — Kaiser  William's  young  Crown  Prince 
and  we'll  hang  him  'side  of  William  by  the  ear.  All  the 
boys  are  well  and  fine  and  the  grub  is  right  in  line.  We 
should  worry  what  the  Huns  may  have  to  say.  We  will 
soon  be  sailing  back  with  a  whiz,  a  whang  and  whack, 
to  our  home — the  good  old  U.  S.  A. 

We  lie  in  our  bunks  at  night  by  the  glowing  candle's 
light  and  hear  the  cannon's  rumble  long  and  low.  Are 
we  in  it?  Well  I  guess:  Shall  we  stay?  Our  answer — • 
"Yes!"  We  shall  stay  till  every  Hun  has  gone  below! 
Out  of  all  this  din  and  fuss  Yankee  land  looks  good  to 
us;  but  we're  glad  to  stay  to  help  our  Allies  win.  With 
our  cannon  at  our  back,  we  will  run  to  the  attack  and 
we'll  drive  the  Germans  homeward  with  a  vim. 

*  Mr.  Wallace  Irwin  assures  the  editor  that  H.  Togo  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  letter  signed  G.  Matsuko. 


542  APPENDIX 

This  is  sure  a  fine  old  land — grass  and  trees  on  every 
hand  and  the  grass  is  green  as  grass  can  ever  be.  All  the 
flowers  in  the  dell,  violets  and  yellow  bell,  as  you  hike 
along,  each  one  you'll  surely  see.  Tho  the  grass  is  green 
beneath  and  the  vines  all  twine  their  wreath,  let  me  tell 
you  what  above  us  may  be  seen.  High  among  the  snowy 
clouds  with  their  purring  smooth  and  loud,  flies  the  ever 
dreaded  human  bird-machine.  Round  and  round  they 
circle  high  till  it  seems  they  pierce  the  sky,  then  with 
curves  and  loop-the-loops  they  drop.  Will  the  wonders  of 
this  age  written  on  old  history's  page,  never  lessen,  never 
weaken,  never  stop  ? 

At  my  desk  so  rough  and  crude — made  of  boards  my 
own  hands  hewed — day  by  day  I  sit  and  labor  as  of  old. 
It  seems  so  much  like  home  that  it  seems  that  I  must 
roam — then  I  stir  and  find  my  dreams  grow  old.  Never 
mind,  my  honey  girl,  if  the  things  are  in  a  whirl — I'll  be 
with  you  when  the  yuletide  comes  around.  There'll  be  a 
hot  time  in  the  State  with  the  Fifty-fourth  for  bait  and 
we'll  raise  the  blooming  roof  right  off  the  town. 

Well,  'tis  time  to  go  to  bed  with  the  moon-light  over- 
head and  the  lights  will  soon  be  out  I  greatly  fear.  I 
would  write  you  often,  pet,  but  the  mail  that  you  would 
get  would  be  all  bunched  up,  as  mail  goes  slowly  here. 
Just  remember  I  am  well  and  we'll  give  the  Germans 

H ,  then  we'll  march  back  o'er  the  fields  of  heather; 

for  a  fellow  can't  feel  bad — only  just  a  little  sad — for 
this  sure  is  what  you'd  call  real  weather. 

Haven't  heard  yet  from  the  States  but  of  course  it's 
not  too  late  and  the  ships  are  surely  needed  for  the  food. 
Give  my  love  to  all  the  girls  with  their  fair  and  golden 
curls — but  keep  the  most  for  you — I  knew  you  would. 
Tell  my  Pa  he  mustn't  fret,  I'll  be  working  with  him  yet. 
Now  the  light  is  burning  low,  so  I  must  quit.  Love  to 
all — it's  getting  late.  Gee,  this  life  is  surely  great.  So 
long.  Mumsy, — rest  tomorrow — there  I  fit.  Pray  for  all 
the  boys  at  war — pray  for  what  we're  fighting  for — fo* 
prayers  are  what  will  win  this  war,  I'll  bet.  Wish  that 
you  were  here  to  see  all  this  peachy  scenery. 

I  remain,  as  ever,  just  your  loving 

CHET. 


APPENDIX  543 

P.  S. — Gee,  this  is  sure  a  day  of  days,  in  many,  many, 
many  ways,  for  lo  I  got  three  letters  from  the  States. 
One  was  numbered  No.  4.  Gee,  I  wish  there  had  been 
more,  for  my  mother  wrote  the  letter,  sure  as  fates.  You 
should  ought  to  heard  me  holler  when  I  saw  a  Yankee 
dollar  lying  safely  there  between  the  folds.  And  before 
I'm  leaving  here  I  shall  buy  a  souvenir,  for  Yankee  money 
here  is  good  as  gold.  I  accept  with  many  thanks  and 
shall  change  it  into  francs  when  I  strike  the  first  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  If  I  do  not  close  this  note  it  will  never  reach  the 
boat,  and  you'll  sure  "be  out  of  luck,"  as  we  all  say.  Love 
again. 

C.  B.  C. 

FRENCH  SOLDIERS  TO  A  BENEFACTRESS  * 
["YOUR  BROTHERS  ARE  FIGHTING  AT  OUR  SIDE"] 

[1917] 
"Madame  la  Presidents: 

The  cases  that  you  have  been  good  enough  to  send  us 
have  arrived  in  Valence.  Thank  you  with  all  our  hearts. 
We  are  very  proud  to  wear  the  superb  pajamas  that  we 
owe  to  your  generosity.  For  a  long  time  we  have  not 
been  so  elegant.  We  are  almost  as  chic  as  Americans! 
Since  the  beginning  of  the  war,  you  have  busied  your- 
self in  making  life  less  hard  and  now  that  your  brothers 
are  fighting  at  our  side  and  dying  for  our  beautiful 
France,  you,  working  indefatigably — you  clothe  us  with 
warm  and  pretty  clothes.  We  would  like  to  thank  you 
in  some  better  way,  but  we  are,  Madame,  only  poor,  grate- 
ful wounded,  who  like  you  very  much.  Please  be  our 
interpreter  to  the  women  of  your  country.  And  be  as- 
sured of  our  profound  respects  and  our  deep  gratitude." 

*  This  letter,  written  in  English,  is  signed  by  thirteen  wounded  men 
in  a  hospital  in  Valence. 


YA  01638 


